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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742913">Nothing Stays the Same</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevra1676/pseuds/genevra1676'>genevra1676</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Cat Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, FTM Dean Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sam Winchester, Professor Dean Winchester, Trans Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:00:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742913</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevra1676/pseuds/genevra1676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam left for college, he resolved that nothing was more important than getting away from his past and starting over, so he completely cut ties with everyone from before--including his sister.  Eight years later, Sam is graduating from Stanford Law School and coming to the realization that this normal, safe life isn't worth much without the person who still means the most to him in it.  He soon discovers however that a lot can change in that long, and Dee isn't the same person he knew anymore . . .</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is an AU in which Sam never left during the Pilot and stayed at Stanford even after Jess' death, so it deals with the repercussions of that when Sam decides he wants to pick up where he left off after so many years.  It also goes into some other tropes I want to explore, such as one of the boys being trans.  These will be discussed in more detail in the author's notes as they come up.  This is still a WIP, so the tags will be updated as needed as the story progresses.</p><p>I frequently use song titles or lyrics for the titles of my stories.  There are a number of songs with "Nothing stays the same" in their lyrics however, so I'm not claiming any particular one as the inspiration for this title.</p><p>Standard disclaimer: The words in this story are mine, but the setting and characters belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, et al.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Graduating with distinction, Samuel H. Winchester!”</p><p>I walked across the stage, shook the dean’s hand, and accepted my diploma.  As I reached the far side of the stage, I paused and did the one thing I’d promised myself not to—I looked across the audience, past the sea of fellow law school graduates in their black gowns and caps, their hoods lined in scarlet satin and trimmed in purple velvet.  My gaze lingered over the guest seating, where family members were eagerly watching their loved ones called up to the stage.</p><p>There was no one there for me, of course.  No happy mother—Mom had died before I could even remember her.  No loving girlfriend—Jess had been killed too almost four years ago, and in nearly the same way.  No proud father—John had disowned me once when I left for Stanford and again when I refused to join in his obsession after Jess’ murder.  Perhaps worst of all, no supportive sister—and I had no one but myself to blame for <em>that</em> loss.</p><p>I kept it together while leaving the stage and drummed up a fake smile when the other students congratulated me.  I plastered on the same pleasant expression through the law school reception following the ceremony and even managed to feign enthusiasm during the party at our usual bar hangout afterward.  Fortunately most of my friends and acquaintances there were too wrapped up in celebrating to notice that I was quieter than usual.</p><p>Most, but not all—Becky came over to my booth while the others were getting more drinks.  “What’s up, Sam?  I thought you’d be more excited on your big day!”</p><p>I’d kept mostly to myself after losing Jess and as a result hadn’t made any close friends in law school.  But a few of my friends from our undergraduate days had stuck by me through the years, including Becky Warren and her brother Zach.  I’d lost touch with Zach after his conviction for the murder of his girlfriend—something that I intended to look into once I was a fully practicing lawyer—but Becky and I continued to talk on the phone or via email at least once a month.  Her flight from St. Louis hadn’t arrived in time today to make the actual graduation ceremony, but I was happy to see her here now.</p><p>“I know, I <em>should</em> be more stoked.  It’s just . . . who do I really have left to share my success with?” I asked, looking down into my empty glass.  “Jess has been gone for years, and I haven’t met anyone since who could take her place.  Brady was my closest friend, but he dropped off the face of the planet not long after her death, and I don’t have many other good friends left beside you and maybe a couple more.  And my family . . . well, I cut them out of my life when I came here, so it was too much to expect any of them to show up today.”</p><p>“You never talked about your relatives before, so we assumed you weren’t close,” she responded in surprise.  “In fact, most of us either thought that you were an orphan or were escaping some kind of abusive home environment.”</p><p>I shook my head.  “No, nothing so bad—I mean, my childhood <em>was</em> pretty crappy by anyone’s definition, but my dad never crossed the line into outright abuse, and my sister did her best to make things easier for me.  She and I were actually really close growing up, right until I left.  The way our dad tried to raise us, how he expected the both of us to blindly follow along in his bullshit though—I needed to get as far away as I could, and that meant not having anything to do with anyone from my former life, including her.”</p><p>“Wow, I had no idea!  You didn’t have to keep this to yourself for so long—you could’ve confided in us, in me before.”  She laid a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.</p><p>“I know, Becks.  But I had to make a clean break, and talking about my family afterward was just too painful.  I guess I’m finally having second thoughts though, after being the only pathetic loser at the ceremony with no one cheering for them.  So I need to figure out what I really want.”  I sighed.</p><p>Our other friends returned before she could say anything else, and we didn’t have a chance to speak again before the party broke up.  It was nearly midnight by the time I got back to my cramped studio apartment.  I set my mortarboard on my desk—the gown had already been returned after the reception—and stripped down to my boxers.  I then sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and stared at my diploma.</p><p>Today’s ceremony was the culmination of eight years of hard work and dedication, resulting in bachelor of science degrees in Computer Science and in Management Science and Engineering, a master of science degree in Management Science and Engineering, and a <em>juris doctor</em> degree with a focus in Intellectual Property and Innovation.  All had been earned with distinction for finishing in the top fifteen percent of my class and were accompanied by several academic excellence awards and memberships in the Order of the Coif, Phi Alpha Delta, and other honors societies.  And thanks to scholarships, part-time work, and frugal living, I would be leaving Stanford with hardly any debt.</p><p>Today should’ve been the proudest day of my life, but somehow it felt . . . <em>hollow</em>.  As impressive as these accomplishments were, they didn’t seem to matter as much without someone to share them with.  I’d done some casual dating since Jess’ death but hadn’t risked getting attached to anyone else.  I had a few friends, but none I was truly close to after Brady’s mysterious disappearance.  And while John could take a long walk off a short pier as far as I was concerned, completely separating from Dee had taken almost more willpower than I’d possessed.</p><p>This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this particular discontent.  Most of my freshman year had felt like a huge part of me was missing, which wasn’t far from the truth—Dee had been older sister, mother, father, best friend, mentor, and more for nearly my entire life.  I’d thought I’d gotten over that after meeting Jess, but in truth that empty feeling never completely went away, and in the wake of her murder all I’d wanted to do was run back to my big sister for comfort.  My undergraduate graduation less than a year later and then my graduate school commencement a month ago, with their equally empty guest seats, had been just as lonely and unfulfilling as today.  But shame, guilt, and a stubborn refusal to admit how badly I’d fucked up had prevented me from reaching out to her for eight long years.</p><p>I shook myself at this point, since moping and gazing at my navel like this wasn’t accomplishing anything.  I carefully added the newest diploma to the file where the others were stored and went to bed.  Sleep eluded me for a while though, until I was forced to bore myself into slumber by recalling my dullest professor droning on about some pointless bit of minutiae.</p><p>The following morning, I went through my usual routine and then worked on cleaning up the mess that had accumulated over the past couple of weeks from studying for finals, preparing for graduation, and starting bar exam review.  In the process of unburying my desk, I uncovered my stack of employment packages—at the moment I had about a half-dozen competitive job offers from promising tech-oriented firms in several major cities waiting for me.  Caught in an atypical hesitancy, I still hadn’t decided on which to accept . . . and considering my growing dissatisfaction, I was beginning to realize why.</p><p>I <em>could</em> continue like this if I truly wanted, could stick to the conviction that nothing was more important than a normal, <em>safe</em> life, a life that precluded any association with the person dearest to me.  I could settle for one of these promising employment opportunities, move into a nice apartment in a new city, and start my ambitious way up the corporate ladder . . . alone.  Maybe I’d eventually find someone to share my life with, or maybe I’d remain married to my work.  Plenty of people sacrificed their personal lives to advance their careers, after all.  I gazed at the potential future stretching before me . . . and found it cold and barren.</p><p>I could resign myself to a dreary, impersonal life like that, or I could take a big risk and own up to the mistakes I’d made.  There really wasn’t much of a choice to consider, given the bleak alternative.  The desperation that had started me on this path and the pride and obstinacy that had kept me there for so long had to take a backseat to reclaim what I <em>really</em> needed.</p><p>It didn’t take long to pack up my clothes, books, electronics, and other personal effects and load them into the trunk and back seat of my dilapidated old Civic.  While this was a good bit more than the single backpack and duffel bag I’d come to Stanford with, it still didn’t seem like much after being in one place for so long.  I stopped at the rental office to return my keys and, after some arguing over the lack of notice, arranged to have the remainder of the month’s rent and most of my deposit refunded.  The manager was somewhat mollified when I told him he could either sell what was left in the apartment or offer it as furnished to the next tenant, since the furniture and housewares were secondhand at best and not worth the effort of taking with me.  After a quick stop to gas up and get drinks and snacks, I got on the road.</p><p>A lot could’ve gone wrong in eight years, but my sister <em>had</em> to be out there alive and unharmed—I would’ve known otherwise somehow.  There was the issue of finding where she actually was, however.  It wasn’t too likely that any of the phone numbers she’d had back then were still active, and in any case our first contact after such a long time needed to be face-to-face.  She and John could be hunting literally anywhere in the country though, so I needed someone who either knew their whereabouts or had the means of tracking them down.  Fortunately I knew of a couple people who fit that bill, so I pointed my car eastward and left Palo Alto behind.</p><p>***</p><p>After driving for nearly two days, I pulled into Singer Salvage Yard for the first time in nearly a decade.  The house looked a little more rundown but otherwise appeared virtually unchanged from the last time I’d been here, as did the heaps of junk and the vehicles in various states of repair out back.  The same beat-up old tow truck and rusty Chevelle were in front of the house, and I parked beside them.</p><p>Bobby came out onto the front porch as I got out of the Civic, looking a little heavier and a little grayer than I remembered but still wearing one of his many well-worn trucker’s caps.  His expression was uninviting, and a sawed-off shotgun was cradled in his arms.  To my shock, he aimed it square at my chest while coming down the steps.</p><p>I stepped away from the car and raised my hands in an unthreatening manner.  “Hey Bobby, it’s . . . uh, it’s been a while.  I’m not sure if you still recognize me after so long, but it’s Sam, Sam Winchester.  I—I’m trying to find my sister.”</p><p>“Oh, I know <em>exactly</em> who you are, jackass.  You got a whole lotta nerve showing up after all these years!” he snapped, his glare intensifying.  “You ain’t welcome here, and I ain’t got anything else to say to you.  Get off my damn property, or John won’t be the only Winchester I’ve filled full of rock salt!”</p><p>I winced—the old man wasn’t pulling any punches.  “I know I screwed big-time, and that’s why I’m here, to try to make amends.  Where is she?  Is she alright?”</p><p>The shotgun didn’t waver.  “I don’t see how it’s any of your business anymore.  D’ya have <em>any</em> idea of the hell you put us through, ‘specially your br— . . . ‘specially Dee?”</p><p>“Listen, I get that everyone was super-pissed when I went to Stanford, but—”</p><p>He snorted derisively.  “No one ‘cept for your idjit dad blamed you for going to college like any other snot-nosed kid.  But the way you up and abandoned your . . . sister right when she needed you the most—that ain’t forgivable in my book.  You broke her damn heart, and it took her a <em>helluva</em> long time to recover and get her life back together.  She don’t need you messing her up all over again, so why don’t you just turn ‘round and go back to your shiny little life in sunny California!”</p><p>I raised my eyebrows at his vehemence.  “Dee’s a lot stronger than you’re giving her credit for.  I don’t doubt that my cutting her out of my life so abruptly hurt her a lot, but she’s resilient enough to—”</p><p>Bobby lowered the weapon and stared at me incredulously.  “You think I’m talking ‘bout her boohooing over a little <em>rejection</em>?  Are you messing with me?  Or . . . don’t tell me you never listened to <em>any</em> of the messages we left you!”</p><p>I flushed in shame as I recalled how often my old cellphone had rung, mostly with one of Dee’s numbers on the display, during my first few weeks at Stanford.  Even after shutting off the ringer, it continued to vibrate frequently with even more unanswered calls, until I ended up stuffing it into the furthest corner of my closet.  I then quickly learned to block their numbers whenever she or anyone from my past tried to call my new phone, until the calls finally stopped about a year or so after I left.  Now the only unknown callers I got were the usual headhunters and telemarketers.</p><p>“I—I . . .  No, I didn’t.  I thought I needed to sever all ties with my past in order to move forward, so I didn’t answer any of those calls or listen to the messages,” I admitted.  “But I assumed that someone would find a way to contact me directly, like John did after Jess’ death, if something serious had happened to either him or Dee.”</p><p>“Is that somehow supposed to make this shit seem <em>better</em>, that you didn’t know?” he demanded.  “All it says to me is that you cared so <em>little</em> ‘bout your family that you couldn’t even be bothered to check your damn voicemail!  And if I recall, Dee <em>did</em> try to see you more than once at Stanford, but you always found some way to dodge hi—her.  No big surprise that she eventually gave up.”</p><p>My shoulders hunched further as I remembered the times she tried to approach me somewhere on campus, and I’d hurriedly lose myself in the crowd or in the maze of a building.  Or the times she knocked on the door to my dorm room, and I pretended to not be there and even blocked the door to prevent her from letting herself in.  On each of those occasions, I’d been too concerned about keeping her out of my new life to consider if there was a more serious reason for her visits that simply wanting to see me.</p><p>“You’re right, I’ve been a selfish asshat, and I’ve got a lot to make up for.  Please, what happened to her?” I asked desperately.</p><p>He crossed his arms.  “Uh uh, you ain’t getting off the hook so easy!  You wanna know what you missed out on, then find out your own damn self!  I ain’t telling you squat without her say-so.”</p><p>“Then please help me find her, man!  I need to see her more than ever, to learn how badly I fucked up and do what I can to fix it.  But I can’t do <em>anything</em> if I don’t have a clue about where to look for her,” I pleaded.</p><p>Bobby studied me for a long moment before responding.  “<em>Balls</em>!  Fine, but only ‘cause I think she deserves the closure of ripping you a new one herself.  I’m gonna make a call and see what she wants to do.  You stay right here.”</p><p>He brought the shotgun up to rest on his shoulder and went back in the house.  While I waited, I looked around the yard for Rumsfeld, but there was no sign that a dog had been here for years.  Playing with Bobby’s Rottweilers during our visits here had been one of the highlights of my childhood, and not seeing one now was another reminder of how much had changed while my head had been stuck in the sand.  I sighed and returned to my car to wait.</p><p>The older man reemerged after about ten minutes.  I hurriedly got out again as he approached, sans shotgun this time, and shoved a piece of paper at me.</p><p>“Dee didn’t want me to give you this at first, but I convinced her that she oughta see you one last time for her own sake.  Better hope you got a valid passport though, or you ain’t going anywhere.  Now get lost and don’t come back!”  He then turned around, marched up the porch and into the house, and slammed the door.</p><p>I looked down at what he’d given me.  It was a page torn from a small notepad and had two lines scrawled on it:</p><p><em>5978 Chancellor Boulevard<br/>
</em> <em>Vancouver BC V6T 0A1</em></p><p>“Huh,” I said aloud, even though no one was around to hear.  “Guess I’m going to Canada!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is another story I've been working on when my muse hasn't been inspired by We'll Do That Together Too.  I frequently work on a side story whenever I'm having trouble with the main one, and ever since I returned to work after my cancer treatment, I've discovered it's best to go between whatever ideas my muse is most interested in than try to force it to stick to a particular project.  The initial kernel for this fic started when a friend came out as trans almost a year ago, and then it expanded as other ideas I'd been thinking about were added on.</p><p>Please note that I'm not trans myself and am only trying to explore the experience of this one particular character.  I did quite a bit of research online to try to keep the story accurate to that experience, but if there's anything that anyone feels is off or outright wrong, please feel free to (politely) bring it up in the comments to see if I can explain or fix it.  Please also note that there will be some mis-gendering in the the first few chapters, but it's not done to be insensitive.  In the case of this chapter, Sam clearly doesn't know anything of what's happened since he left, and Bobby doesn't want to out Dean without Dean's express permission.  In the following chapters after Sam finds out, it takes him a little while to first accept and then get used to Dean's gender identity, so he's going to slip up for a while.  My apologies if anyone finds this upsetting.</p><p>There are a number of fics out there that deal with the idea of Sam not leaving Stanford, or of him leaving Dean for some other reason, and then eventually seeking his brother out after X months or years.  My problem with this situation, both in fanfic and in similar instances in canon, is that Dean nearly always forgives Sam too quickly and too easily (like in the first half of S8).  I get that this fits in with his canonical self-worth and abandonment issues, but for once I'd like to see him NOT push down his own feelings in order to appease others and in this case not take Sam back until he's done more to earn it.  Fortunately, one of the benefits of fan fiction is being able to "fix" things that bother you in canon, so here we are.  :)</p><p>One of the well-known canon discrepancies in SPN starts in the Pilot, where Sam is 22 years old and has completed 4 years at Stanford but is still in the process of applying to law school.  For those not familiar with the American university system, most kids start college at age 18 and graduate after 4 years at age 21-22; if they plan to go on to law school, graduate school, or other further education, they generally apply near the start of their 4th year--i.e. after completing 3 years of college and still at age 21.  Now Eric Kripke probably just pulled numbers out that sounded good to him and didn't care if they were accurate, but fans of course have been coming up with various theories to explain the gap.  I've decided the simplest explanation that fits both the canon timeline and Sam's nature is that it took him 5 years to finish his undergraduate education because he chose a degree program that needed an extra year, such as a double major that didn't have much overlap and/or he didn't decide on until too late to finish in the usual 4 years.  (I don't buy the theory that Sam was held back a year in high school or earlier due to all the moving around, since he's smart and driven enough to make sure he kept up unless something catastrophic had happened.)  In this story, he then completed a dual master's-law degree program in 3 years, bringing him to 2 B.A.'s, 1 M.A., and 1 J.D. after 8 years at Stanford.</p><p>I plan to try to update this fairly regularly, though it'll probably be more like every 2 weeks or so and alternate with other stories I'm working on to stretch out the buffer of completed chapters. This is a WIP, and the tags will be updated periodically as needed. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos are always highly appreciated. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The trip to Vancouver took another two days.  Fortunately I’d gone to Cabo with Jess for a friend’s destination wedding a few years back, so my passport was still up-to-date, and therefore the border crossing was no problem.  The drive itself had been long and tiring but fairly uneventful up until an hour ago, when the engine began making a distressing grinding noise just before crossing the Canadian border.  I just hoped the ancient vehicle would last until I found my sister.</p>
<p>I wondered along the way what Dee was doing here, as there were enough hunters in Canada that we rarely had to cross the border growing up, and that shouldn’t have changed in the years since.  In addition, the address I’d been given appeared to be on the northern end of the University of British Columbia’s main campus, which was not where I’d expect to find the fleabag motels or abandoned houses that John had usually made us stay in when we were younger and that I presumed he still used now.  Something clearly wasn’t adding up.</p>
<p>I got off of Route 99 on the southern edge of the city and followed SW Marine Drive past Vancouver International Airport, through the University Endowment Lands, and along the coast of the Strait of Georgia.  The car began to rattle even louder as SW Marine Drive turned into Chancellor Boulevard, and I barely managed to park in front of the address I was seeking just before its engine gave a wrenching clank and died. </p>
<p>The boulevard consisted of two lanes separated by a wide, grassy median with a few trees, and it was lined on this side by a series of large duplexes and on the other by fairly sizeable single-family homes.  The unit I was parked in front of had a stone façade on the first level and blue-grey stucco on the two stories above, with a columned porch and small yard in front.  A low cement wall planted with a privacy hedge and a metal gate separated the property from the sidewalk.  This looked like the type of neighborhood I hoped to be able to buy into after a few years of hard work as a law associate—again, not the sort of place where my father or sister would be found squatting in.</p>
<p>I sat in the car for about an hour, watching people walking by or entering and leaving the various houses while I tried to decide how to approach and what to say when I got there.  As the sky began to darken, I realized that staying out here wasn’t accomplishing anything, so it was time to man up.  Girding my loins, I got out, opened the small gate, and walked up the short path to the glass-paneled front doors.  I paused a moment to settle my nerves, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.  I waited for about a minute and was about to ring again when the door was yanked open. </p>
<p>I stared in confusion, as the figure in front of me was decidedly <em>male</em>—short hair styled in tousled spikes, angular cheeks and sharp jaw lightly covered in bronze stubble, broad flat chest and muscular arms well-displayed in a snug gray Henley, and narrow hips and powerful thighs showcased equally well in fitted jeans.  But the height, the tawny color of that hair, the bowed curve of those long legs, the long-lashed green eyes above those high cheekbones, the sensual rosy lips set in that jaw, even the freckles on that fair skin were unmistakable.</p>
<p>“D—Dee?  Is . . . is that you?” I asked uncertainly.</p>
<p>The . . . person’s brows came together in a familiar scowl, and a clenched fist abruptly connected with my chin in a perfect uppercut.  My head snapped back, and everything went black.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The first thing I noticed when I drifted back to consciousness was how much my jaw and the back of my head hurt, and the next was that there was a heavy weight on my chest.  I opened my eyes with a groan and blearily saw a wide pair of bright blue eyes staring back at me.  Once my vision cleared, I realized they belonged to a large housecat with a long, cream-colored coat and pale orange face, ears, legs, and tail.  The cat studied me for a moment before purring and reaching out with a paw to touch my chin. </p>
<p>As the pain in my head receded, a child’s voice suddenly asked, “Are you a bad man?  ‘Cause Daddy only hits bad guys who try to hurt people—like that man that tried to grab Joey in the park last year.  Daddy punched him and held him down while Joey’s mom called the police.  Daddy, are we gonna call the police now?  Though looks like Cas thinks he’s okay, so maybe he’s not so bad.”</p>
<p>I turned my head, and my breath caught in my throat.  The speaker was a young girl of maybe six or seven years of age, wearing purple corduroy overalls and an embroidered white blouse and carrying an oversized stuffed bunny.  I’d never seen her before, but her identity was obvious.  Her long hair, caught up in two ponytails, was the same shade of blond my sister’s had been at that age, and she had Dee’s green eyes, narrow nose, full mouth, and freckled complexion.  But the shape of her eyes, the angle of her brows and cheekbones, and the dimples faintly visible in her cheeks—those were mine.  This . . . this was my <em>daughter</em>.</p>
<p>“No, Sam here is just a big dummy I knew from before you were born, sweetheart,” a male voice replied from somewhere behind her before I could say anything.  The deep timbre was unfamiliar, but the speech patterns were still recognizable.  “Can you do me a favor and play in your room for a while?  I need to yell at Sam for being a—a butthead before he leaves, and I’m gonna use words that you shouldn’t hear.  I’ll call you for dinner.”</p>
<p>“Okay, but can you help me carry my stuff upstairs first?”</p>
<p>I waited until both sets of footsteps had receded before picking up the rumbling cat, who was far more difficult to move that his size would suggest, sitting up, and setting him on the ground.  The cat gave me a disgruntled look and wandered off, leaving me to examine my surroundings uninterrupted.</p>
<p>I was in the living room of what appeared to be my sister's duplex.  The red upholstered sofa I was sitting on, along with the matching loveseat and complementing armchairs formed a U in front of a stone-faced gas fireplace, with end tables bracketing the sofa and loveseat and a square coffee table in the center.  A huge, elaborately carved and painted <em>yakka</em> mask hung over the wooden mantel, and the shallow recesses flanking the fireplace held console tables displaying a witch bottle, incantation bowl, and various amulets and talismans.  Large picture windows filled up most of the front wall of the room, and behind me was a small foyer and powder room. </p>
<p>To my right, two steps led up to a dining room furnished with a table big enough to seat at least eight, a low sideboard, and display cases mostly filled with collectibles and memorabilia from Dee’s favorite shows and movies, though a couple shelves were devoted to unicorn and dragon figurines.  A brass Sputnik chandelier hung down from the two-story vaulted ceiling, and the walls were decorated with movie and music posters.  Across from the dining room was what appeared to be a small study, and behind the dining room were a staircase heading both up and down and a short hallway leading to the kitchen and family room.</p>
<p>Tall ceilings set with recessed lights made the space feel larger and more airy.  The mid-century modern-style furniture looked well-made and comfortable, the walls in the main rooms were painted a warm gold, and geometric rugs in rich earth tones complemented the wide-plank exotic hardwood floors.  Hung over the doorways and windows were horseshoes, Brigid’s crosses, and other wards, and more protective objects like in the living room were displayed throughout on shelves and tables, in wall niches and windows, and so on.</p>
<p>Before I could investigate further, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and hurriedly returned to the sofa.  Dee first went toward the kitchen and emerged with an open bottle of beer.  She hesitated briefly before approaching where I was sitting, her expression noncommittal and her walls clearly up.</p>
<p>“She's mine, isn’t she?  What’s her name?  How did—" I blurted out, all my carefully prepared words blown away after the onslaught of unexpected discoveries.</p>
<p>“Her name's Joy, and no, she ain't <em>yours</em>,” Dee interrupted dismissively.  “You're nothing but a sperm donor—you lost the right to be her father when you fucking <em>bailed</em> on us before she was even born.”</p>
<p>She abruptly stepped closer and glared down at me.  “And if you have even a <em>single</em> thought ‘bout taking her away, I won't hesitate to put a coupla bullets in your fucking brainpan and make sure no one <em>ever</em> finds your goddamn body!  We clear?”</p>
<p>Looking into those furious green eyes, it was obvious that this wasn't an idle threat.  I probably should've been taken more aback that my sister's first words to me were so menacing, but I remembered how fiercely she'd watched over me as a child.  It was only natural that she'd be even more protective of her own daughter now.</p>
<p>I raised my hands in a placating manner.  “Believe me, Dee, I would <em>never</em> try to separate the two of you!  I . . . I honestly didn't know she even existed until a few minutes ago.  But I can already tell just from looking around here that you're a wonderful parent.</p>
<p>“What—what happened to <em>you</em> though?  Is this some kind of curse or hex?  How long have you been stuck like this?  Are Bobby or Pastor Jim working on a cure?” I asked.</p>
<p>She gave me an incredulous look.  “Are you stupid or something?  I'm trans, dumbass!  This is how I was <em>meant</em> to be, and it took a helluva lot to get here—not that you knew or fucking cared.”</p>
<p>I flopped back in my seat in surprise.  “You're <em>what</em>?  But—but you were . . .  You never said anything before about not being happy being a girl . . . <em>or</em> about being pregnant!”</p>
<p>“And you never told me that you were a self-centered douchebag who’d dump me the first chance you got—which <em>still</em> doesn’t make us even!” she retorted as she moved back and sat down on the loveseat.  “Whaddya think most of those calls and visits I tried to make back then were <em>for</em>, asshole?  If you'd fucking bothered to answer the phone or the door just <em>once</em>, you woulda known ‘bout Joy and ‘bout me.  But you made it pretty damn clear years ago that you didn't want anything to do with your family, so what the <em>hell</em> are you doing here now?”</p>
<p>I took a deep breath.  “You're right—I’ve royally fucked up.  When I left for Stanford, I was convinced that what I needed the most was a normal life—one that didn't involve hunting the supernatural, didn't involve surviving by fraud, deception, and dodging the law, and didn't . . . didn't involve being in a relationship with my own sister.  I severed ties with everyone from before, including you—<em>especially</em> you—because I couldn't risk getting pulled back in.</p>
<p>“Cutting you out of my life was the hardest thing I've ever done, and I’ve come to realize that it was also the biggest mistake I've ever made.  Everything I've achieved since then—the scholarships and awards, the degrees, the job offers—is meaningless without you to share them with.  I'm here now because I need you, Dee—as a friend, sister, lover, or however else you'll have me,” I concluded, looking at her hopefully.</p>
<p>Dee arched a sardonic brow in response.  “’Cause it's always about <em>you</em> and what <em>you</em> want, ain't it?  You thought you could just waltz in like nothing’s changed, as if I’ve just been waiting around for you to come sweep me away or some shit.  Never even occurred to you that I mighta moved on and built a life of my own, one that you ain’t part of, did it?  Tell me, Sam, have you <em>ever</em> had a thought that didn't revolve ‘round yourself?”</p>
<p>I hunched my shoulders.  “I—I guess I didn't really think about what you've been doing all this time—I just assumed you were still hunting with John.  I certainly didn't expect any of this!”</p>
<p>“Of course not, ‘cause that would involve giving a crap ‘bout someone besides you!”  She leaned back and took a swig of her beer, but the angry gleam of her eyes belied her relaxed pose.  “Ya know, contrary to what you probably think, I wasn't mad when you left for Stanford.  I was hurt that you kept your college plans a secret from me, yeah, but I was also proud that you got that full ride and happy you had a chance to do more with your life.  Only reason I didn’t say so that night was I was too busy keeping you and Dad from killing each other.</p>
<p>“If you'd asked before you left, I mighta come with you, ‘cause you were more important to me than Dad or the mission or anything else at the time.  If you'd picked up the phone at least once during that first year, I woulda figured out how to include you in the new future I was trying to create for myself.  If you'd tried to reach out even a year or two later, I coulda found a way to forgive you.  But you didn't do <em>any</em> of that.</p>
<p>“You didn't even care enough to listen to your fucking voicemail, since you obviously don't have a goddamn clue ‘bout what happened.  And Dad told me that all you asked about when he tried to get your help after your girl was killed was why I wasn't there to back him up instead of him coming to you.  Seems like you spent the past eight years happily pretending we didn't exist, and now you expect me to just take you back like nothing's wrong?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“No, of course not!  I knew you'd be mad and hurt before I came here and that I'd have to earn your forgiveness first,” I replied.  “I—I didn't listen to your messages because I was a moron who prioritized my safety over my family, but I <em>did</em> care.  Dad told me it was none of my damn business what you were doing, which is the <em>only</em> reason I didn't ask him more about you.  I was never <em>happy</em> about not having you in my life.  I thought about you <em>all</em> the time, Dee, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get my head out of my ass.”</p>
<p>“Too little, too late, dude.  For eighteen years I gave you <em>everything</em>, and you threw it all back in my face as soon as you could.”  Dee put her bottle down and leaned forward.  “I had to endure a hellacious pregnancy and birth, and <em>you weren't there</em>.  I went through a difficult, literally life-changing transition, and <em>you weren't there</em>.  I’ve spent the last several years making it on my own as a single parent, and <em>you weren't there</em>.  Now you have the nerve to show up after <em>eight goddamn years</em> ‘cause you’re lonely or whatever, and you expect me to give a shit?</p>
<p>“Well, think again—that's not how <em>any</em> of this is gonna go down, asshat.  It took me a <em>long</em> fucking time to get over you ditching me, and I ain't gonna let you screw up my life again—<em>or</em> my daughter's.  And don’t worry ‘bout getting hit up for child support now that you’re gonna be some fancyass lawyer, ‘cause I don’t want <em>anything</em> from you—except your absence.  So get into that piece-of-shit out front and go back to your crappy yuppie life.  There’s no place for you and your bullshit here.”  She then stood and left the room.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So here Sam was, assuming that nothing had really changed with his family, that his father and sister were still driving around hunting things, despite eight years having passed since he'd seen or talked to them, and that a heartfelt apology and a little groveling would get him back in Dee's good graces.  Boy, did he ever get a surprise here!  Finding out that Dee is actually Dean, that he's settled down with a nice house, and that they have a daughter together--Sam's got a lot to get used to now . . . </p>
<p>As I mentioned in an earlier note, part of the inspiration for this story was a good friend coming out as trans almost a year ago.  I've noticed that there aren't a lot of Wincest stories featuring trans characters, and fewer still feature trans!Dean.  Plus most of these trans stories tend to be on the fluffier side as far as the other brother accepting his sibling's gender identity goes--which I totally get why people would want stories like that.  But as someone commented on the previous chapter, sometimes people want to see other sides of the trans experience as well.  Sam's not the type to be deliberately transphobic, but accepting the drastic changes in the person he thought he knew best aren't going to be easy.</p>
<p>Those who've read the author's notes on my A/B/O fics know that I'm not a big fan of mpreg in general.  It doesn't work for me from a biological standpoint for a number of reasons in the way most stories present it (such as in an A/B/O setting), and also too many authors feminize the pregnant character far too much--which at that point you might as well just do a genderswap.  I don't mind reading mpreg stories, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of writing them.  There have been aspects of the idea of Sam and Dean having a child together than I've wanted to explore however, so for a while I was debating about having to go against my squick regarding writing mpreg.  When this story starting running around in my head, I soon realized the possibilities of combining the ideas of Dean being trans, Dean and Sam having a kid, and Dean being hurt and furious over Sam abandoning him for so long, and so here we are.  On a lighter note, can you imagine how absolutely GORGEOUS any child with both Sam's and Dean's features will grow up to be?</p>
<p>If you're curious, Dean's house does exist at the address given in the previous chapter.  When the story calls for a domestic setting that's not part of canon (i.e. not Bobby's house, the Bunker, etc.), I like to look up real estate listings and/or floor plans to give me a starting point to visualize the place, and then I tweak things to fit my tastes or the story's needs.  As I've said before, there's SO much that we can find online anymore, which gives us writers quite a lot to work with.</p>
<p>BTW, I am very disappointed that "Catstiel" is not a legit tag on AO3.  That is all for now (more discussion will follow in a later chapter).</p>
<p>Another update will come in a couple of weeks, since I'm still alternating posting this and 2 other stories on the weekends.  Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos make me a happy kitty.  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I sat and stared for several minutes, in shock over everything crashing down so abruptly.  I then set my jaw and stood.  I wasn't going to give up so easily—my <em>family</em> was too important to let myself be turned away at the first sign of opposition.  Plus if I left now, the likelihood of ever being let back in was slim to none.  I needed to find my sister and convince her to give me another chance.</p>
<p>I headed in the direction she had disappeared into.  As I walked through the dining room, to my right was a set of partially-open pocket doors leading to the study, through which I could see a large desk and walls lined in bookcases.  Before reaching the gap in the doors, I heard voices and stopped to listen.  One voice was Dee's, and the other was even deeper, with an unusual but pleasing resonance.</p>
<p>“—can’t go through that again, man!  It just ain't worth the risk,” Dee said, her voice thick.</p>
<p>“I understand how badly Sam's abandonment wounded you, Dean,” the other said.  “But the fact remains that you need him—the two of you are stronger together than apart.  Plus we can better protect him from our opponents trying to use or hurt him if he is here with you.  Yes, he has his own guardians, but I have never liked relying on <em>them</em>.”</p>
<p>The voice softened somewhat as it continued, “On a more personal note, it is my belief that allowing Sam to attempt to make amends for his previous actions will better enable you to heal properly.  It is already an improvement that you are releasing your pain and anger at the appropriate target instead of walling them off or worse directing them at yourself.  And Joy deserves the opportunity to get to know her <em>other</em> father.”</p>
<p>“That's what I’m most afraid of!  It's gonna suck badly enough when he buggers off again and fucks <em>my</em> life up a second time, but I can't afford to let him to break <em>her</em> heart!” Dee retorted.</p>
<p>“You will have to take a chance at some point if you are ever going to move on.  For what it is worth, I do think that Sam is quite earnest in his desire to repair things between you,” the other offered.</p>
<p>There was a long silence and then a heavy sigh.  “I hope you're a better judge of his character now than I was back then, dude.  And I ain't gonna make this easy—he's gonna hafta <em>work</em> to earn a place here.”</p>
<p>“I would not suggest anything else.  You should go talk to him before he tries to leave though,” the voice replied.</p>
<p>I hastily moved back and then walked forward again, this time making enough noise to ensure my approach was heard.  Dee was getting up from the desk when I entered the study.  There was no one else in the room, unless you counted the cat sitting on the end of the desk, so I assumed she’d been talking to someone on the phone.  I noticed that her eyes were reddened as if she'd been crying and felt another pang of guilt.</p>
<p>“Dee, we need to talk.  I—I’m not going anywhere, despite what you just told me.  You and Joy are my family, and you both deserve better than what I’ve done—or more accurately failed to do—in the past.  <em>Please</em> give me the chance to make it up to you, and not just for my sake but for both of yours as well,” I said, projecting as much sincerity as I could.</p>
<p>“Guess you're in luck then.  Against my better judgement, I . . . I’m gonna let you have another shot,” Dee responded with a sour expression.  “You say you wanna try to fix what you fucked up, so it's time to put your money where your mouth is.</p>
<p>“You need to get a few things straight though.  First, <em>stop</em> calling me Dee—Deanna Winchester died a helluva long time ago.  I ain't ‘she' or ‘her’ either.  My name is Dean Michael Campbell, and I'm a dude, not a chick.  If you can't accept that, there's the goddamn door.</p>
<p>“Second, you ain't my brother or my boyfriend anymore, and you certainly ain't Joy's father—all you are now is a guy I used to know who I’m letting crash here for a while.  Whether you get to be anything more than that is up to you.  In the meantime, you don't tell my girl <em>anything</em> that might confuse or hurt her when you decide to dump us again.  If I catch you messing with her head, I <em>will</em> beat the living shit outta you.</p>
<p>“Last, you don't get to keep secrets from me anymore.  If you'd talked about your crap with me eight years ago—going to college, getting away from hunting, even ending the <em>Flowers in the Attic</em> thing we had—we coulda worked it all out somehow.  But you didn't and instead nearly ruined my life.  So when you bail again, have the goddamn balls this time to tell me about it first.  <em>Capisce</em>?”  Sh—he gave me an uncompromising stare.</p>
<p>“I understand.  And I won't let you down, I promise,” I answered softly.  “I won’t leave again, and I’ll prove to you that I’ve changed.”</p>
<p>“Talk is cheap, dude.  Go get your crap outta your car, and I'll show you to the guest bedroom later.  I'm gonna finish making dinner now.”  Sh—he then turned and went down the hall to the kitchen.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Before heading out, I took a closer look around the study.  All but the back wall and the space for the doorway was covered in floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, most of which were filled with books on mythology, folklore, and the supernatural—translations of primary sources, scholarly works, textbooks, and more, organized by topic or culture.  One set of shelves was stocked with issues of <em>Journal of Folklore Research</em>, <em>Marvels &amp; Tales</em>, <em>Journal of Popular Culture</em>, and similar publications.  A couple bookcases were devoted to fiction, with authors ranging from Kurt Vonnegut to Stephen King to George R.R. Martin.  Overall, this collection was something I’d expect to find in Bobby’s or Pastor Jim’s house, not in my sis—brother’s possession.</p>
<p>In the center of the back wall, underneath the window, were a large walnut and chrome mid-century modern executive desk and leather chair.  Arranged on the desk were a laptop, all-in-one printer, gaming mouse, joystick and throttle set, and a couple of open reference books.  To one side of the desk was a matching credenza housing a high-end home audio system with a turntable and a sizable collection of records.  On the other side was a wooden guitar rack holding a sunburst acoustic guitar and an ebony electric guitar, with a combo amp sitting next to the rack. </p>
<p>Hanging on the burnt orange-painted wall above the credenza was a pair of framed diplomas with the name Dean Campbell: a bachelor of arts in Individual Major: Folklore from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a master of arts in Interdisciplinary Studies: Mythology and Folklore from the University of British Columbia.  I peered closely at each one but couldn’t detect any signs of forgery—whoever made them had done an excellent job.  Glancing down at the desk, I noticed a bound copy of a doctoral dissertation on <em>Indigenous Folklore, Superstitions, and Urban Legends in North America</em> by Dean Campbell near the reference books.</p>
<p>I would’ve poked around some more, but the cat, who was still sitting on the desk, kept staring at me.  I shook my head and left the study to head back the way I came.  On my way to the front door, I checked out the powder room, which was painted a light mauvey-taupe color and decorated with an intricate <em>hamsa</em> wall hanging, and the foyer, which was painted a pale gold and held a small coat closet and a hall tree.  I left the duplex to head down to the curb, where I grabbed as many of my bags as I could from my car. </p>
<p>Upon ringing the doorbell again, Dee—<em>Dean</em> greeted me with another scowl but no punch this time and instead gestured for me to follow, leading me down the stairs to the lower level.  The main part of the finished basement consisted of a spacious rec room with a wet bar, pool table, black leather sectional sofa and recliners arranged in front of another gas fireplace with a huge flat screen TV over it, racks of DVDs and Blu-rays, more movie and music memorabilia on the walls and in display cases, and a large, elaborate cat tree.  The floor was covered in a chocolate-brown Berber carpet and the walls in a creamy peach paint.</p>
<p>Along the wall where the stairs let out were a tiled laundry room, large storage room, and mechanical room.  At the far end of the rec room was a closed door which had a handmade wooden sign above it stating, “Dean Cave NO ADMITTANCE Trespassers will be neuralized!”  Given his demeanor, I didn’t bother to ask what was behind that door.</p>
<p>He headed to the other side of the basement and opened a door on the same wall as the fireplace and TV.  “This guest room’s got more space and privacy than the one upstairs, so it oughta be better if you hafta study or work in here.  Adam usually spends a good chunk of the summer with us, so he uses this.  Or sometimes Bobby if he’s gonna be here for more than a coupla weeks.”</p>
<p>“Thanks for letting me stay here,” I offered as sh—he started to turn away.</p>
<p>He shrugged.  “There should be clean sheets and towels in one of the cabinets.  If you hafta bring in more stuff, just leave the front door unlocked so I don’t hafta let you in again.  If you’re actually gonna be staying a while, I’ll see ‘bout getting you a key.”</p>
<p>I nodded and went inside what would be my room for the foreseeable future.  I was pleasantly surprised to discover it was in fact a small suite, complete with bedroom, sitting/study area, and bathroom.  The bedroom was simply furnished with a queen platform bed, pair of nightstands, and dresser, all in a similar style to the furniture in the rest of the condo, and one wall was lined with closets and built-in storage.  The sitting area held a matching desk with attached bookcase, office chair, pale grey loveseat and ottoman, end table, and low console table.  The carpet in the suite was dark blue, and the walls were painted a slate grey and decorated with what I took to be local First Nations art prints and carvings.  A plain navy comforter, set of drum light fixtures, and a painted wooden totem on the dresser completed the décor.</p>
<p>I dropped my bags by the bed and went back down to the car to get my laptop and other electronics.  A couple more trips to fetch boxes of books and papers took care of the last of my possessions, and checking the built-in compartments produced fresh linens.  After making up the bed with pale blue sheets and hanging a navy towel in the bathroom, which was also connected to the rec room and had grey quartz countertops, silver glass mosaic accenting the white subway tile on the wall, white porcelain fixtures, chrome hardware, and dark grey slate tile on the floor, I resolved that unpacking could wait until later and followed my nose.</p>
<p>Back on the main level, on the other side of the stairs was an L-shaped kitchen with simple cherry cabinets, gold-flecked brown quartz countertops, stainless steel professional-grade appliances, globe pendant light fixtures, and a coppery glass mosaic backsplash.  A long island with a double sink and breakfast bar separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space.  On the far side of the kitchen was a small alcove with a pantry closet, an exterior door, and a door presumably to the garage.  Across from the kitchen was a cozy family room featuring a leather mid-century modern couch and armchairs, coordinating coffee, end, and sofa tables, and a large flat screen TV over a third gas fireplace.  A large window on one side of the fireplace let in natural light, and a set of French doors on the other led to a small stone-paved patio.</p>
<p>In the kitchen, my sis—brother was pulling a meatloaf out of the oven.  A pot of homemade macaroni and another of steamed Brussel sprouts sat on the stove.  He took some colorfully patterned plates out of a cabinet and began serving small portions of each dish onto one and larger portions onto another.</p>
<p>“Man, everything smells <em>amazing</em>!” I commented appreciatively.  “By the way, who did the work on those diplomas?  You can’t even tell that they’re counterfeit!”</p>
<p>Sh—he threw an indignant glare at me.  “That’s ‘cause they <em>ain’t</em> fake, dickwad!  D’ya think I’m dumb enough to use bogus credentials <em>here</em>, after working so hard to establish this life?  Or is it that you can’t believe I got the brains to do more than gank monsters?”</p>
<p>“No, of course not!  I’ve never thought you were stupid!” I responded hastily.  “But you always hated school and seemed thrilled when you were finally able to drop out.  So forgive me if I found the idea of you working on a Ph.D. a little hard to believe!”</p>
<p>His expression didn’t look mollified.  “Public school sucked ‘cause I couldn’t stand the bullshit—the cliques and pissant politicking, everyone judging us ‘cause our clothes came from a thrift store, having to sit through the same goddamn lessons over and over again, and all the rest of that crap.  And yeah, I was relieved to get out, ‘cause between taking care of you, helping Dad with hunting, and trying to keep up with five different schools in one year . . . well, something had to give, and it wasn’t gonna be you or Dad.”</p>
<p>“Are—are you saying that you didn’t finish high school because of <em>me</em>?”  I was aghast.  “I’m so sorry, I never—”</p>
<p>Dean shook his head as he broke up another slice of meatloaf into a small bowl.  “Nah, <em>that</em> wasn’t your fault.  You were still a kid and needed someone to look after you, and that it wasn’t like we coulda relied on Dad back then.  I did what I had to do, and he eventually realized how much he’d fucked up with us.  Having a grandkid really mellowed the old man out!”</p>
<p>“So . . . he knows about all of this?”</p>
<p>“It ain’t exactly something I coulda hid from him,” he pointed out.  “Listen, I get that there’s a helluva lot you need to catch up on, but I don’t got the energy right now to go into it.  So let’s just have dinner and deal with all that shit later, okay?”</p>
<p>I nodded, loaded up a plate for myself, and followed he—him to the dining room.  I noted with bemusement as he set the bowl of meatloaf chunks at the opposite end of the table from his plate and asked, “Is that for the <em>cat</em>?  I’ve heard of being pussy-whipped before, but—”</p>
<p>“Shuddup, dork!  Cas doesn’t eat people food all that often, but this is one of his favorites.  If you keep giving me sass, I’ll give him your share too!” he threatened, before calling out, “Joy, dinner’s ready!”</p>
<p>“Coming, Daddy!”  She skipped into the room a few minutes later, the cat at her heels.  She paused when she caught sight of me.  “Is <em>he</em> staying for dinner?  I thought you were mad at him!”</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em>, but . . . it’s complicated, honey.  Sam’s gonna be staying with us for a little while, ‘cause . . . well, he wants a chance to make up for his mistakes and try to be friends again,” Dean explained.</p>
<p>She raised her eyebrow in a familiarly doubtful manner, then pointedly turned away from me and began to prattle about her lessons and some incident at school.  Her mo—father managed to keep a straight face while responding to her fanciful questions as he ate.  The cat meanwhile jumped up onto the table and attacked his bowl with gusto.</p>
<p>I didn’t pay much attention, since my focus was on the food.  Dee had always been a pretty good cook, even when our budget barely extended to more than Ramen and generic boxed mac ‘n cheese, and he—his culinary skills had only improved with time.  Everything was tender and flavorful—the meatloaf was glazed with barbeque sauce and stuffed with mozzarella cheese and sundried tomatoes, the Brussel sprouts were seasoned with lemon, garlic, and butter, and the whole-grain macaroni was coated in a rich sauce of at least three different cheeses, cream, and crumbled bacon.  This meal was a <em>wonderful</em> change after years of mostly subsisting on takeout and cafeteria fare, and I heartily dug in.</p>
<p>Joy was pushing the last sprout on her plate around when she suddenly blurted out, “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I don’t want <em>him</em> here!  He <em>hurt</em> you—I recognized him from the photos in that album you keep in your closet, the one that always makes you <em>cry</em>.  I figured out who he’s supposed to be—I can see that the parts of me that don’t look like you look like him.  But <em>you’re</em> the only dad I need, so make him go away before he hurts you again!”</p>
<p>“I get how you feel, baby girl, but—” he started to say.</p>
<p>“No!  I <em>hate</em> him!”  She shoved her chair away from the table and ran up the stairs, with my brother in close pursuit.</p>
<p>The cat glanced up from licking his bowl clean and announced, “<em>That</em> certainly went well!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As much as many of us would've found it satisfying if Sam had actually gotten kicked out on his ass after the end of the previous chapter, unfortunately there wouldn't have been much story afterward if that had happened.  Dean only agreed (after much argument) to let Sam come over so that Dean could vent his feelings, and if Sam had left after that, there would've been no way Dean would be willing to see him again (as Sam suspected).  Dean might've grudgingly agreed to let him stay, but Sam still has his work cut out for him to get his brother--and his daughter--to forgive him.</p>
<p>One of the pernicious fallacies in parts of the fandom is that Dean is just a dumb grunt, especially in comparison to Sam, and I absolutely can't stand it.  Dean isn't as well-educated as Sam certainly, but people should be able to realize that book-smarts isn't the only indicator of intelligence.  Dean's knowledge and understanding of the lore, his strategies to outsmart and defeat his opponents, his vast memory for pop-culture references, his mechanical aptitude and ingenuity, and his empathy and way with people all clearly show that Dean too is a highly intelligent person.  What's particularly frustrating about this false dumb!Dean narrative is that Sam himself is one of the worst offenders.  Sam did say once that Dean wasn't a dumb grunt and was a genius with the lore, but that one time is outweighed by the many times he expressed surprise when Dean made a literary reference or demonstrated computer skills, made snide comments like not reading things with more words than pictures, and so on.  In this story, that's one of the many assumptions and preconceptions that Sam is getting shoved in his face and will have to reexamine.</p>
<p>I hope that the reveal at the very end of the chapter doesn't feel too cracktastic, and that many of you have already guessed Cas the cat's true identity.  Originally, the cat was just going to be a regular pet, an ordinary fluffy Siberian cat Dean got for Joy when she was old enough to start learning how to help take care of a pet, and it would be a blue-eyed flame-point because a friend has a Siberian boy named Moon who looks like that (Siberians are a hypoallergenic breed, for anyone wondering because of Dean's canon allergy).  I then wanted to bring Castiel into the story to watch over Dean and Joy for reasons hinted in the conversation at the beginning of the chapter (more will be explained later), and then remembered something from Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series.  In those books, there are the horse-like companions in Valdemar who are reincarnated Heralds, and there are also the feline-like Firecats in Karse who are reincarnated Sons of the Sun (and who happen to resemble larger versions of flame-point Siamese).  That made me start thinking of alternate vessels for angels, and now here we are!  How and why Castiel is in this particular form will be explained in the next chapter.</p>
<p>The next update should be in 3 weeks, since I'm still alternating between this story and 2 others.  Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos make me a happy writer.  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You—you can <em>talk</em>?  Wait . . . you’re the one Dee was speaking with earlier!” I exclaimed, recognizing the uncanny timbre of his voice.  Up close, it almost sounded as if a choir was speaking simultaneously.</p><p>“Give the man a prize.  And you should not call Dean by that name—it upsets him.”  The cat began cleaning his whiskers.</p><p>“But <em>how</em>?  What <em>are</em> you?”</p><p>He looked up and met my gaze, his blue eyes bright and serene.  “My name is Castiel.  I am an angel of the Lord.”</p><p>I had to suppress the urge to burst out laughing.  “You’re kidding, right?  I suppose I can buy a talking cat—I remember legends about some fairy cats like the <em>cait sidhe</em> being able to speak.  But an <em>angel</em>?  As much as I would love to believe in their existence, there’s never been proof in the lore that they’re any more real than unicorns.  And even if they were, why would one appear as a <em>cat</em>?”</p><p>“You should have more faith, Sam Winchester,” he informed me seriously.  “As someone who was raised in the hunter lifestyle, you should understand that creation encompasses much more than what you humans have been able to document thus far.  And as someone who professes to pray every day, you should be more willing to believe in a higher power, even in the absence of ‘proof.’”</p><p>As the cat spoke, his eyes began to emit a luminous azure light and his body to shine with brilliant energy.  As the glow brightened and spread, the shadow cast on the wall behind him was <em>not</em> that of a small feline—the shape appeared as an immense, roiling mass of flames with a multitude of bright eyes opening and three pairs of vast wings unfurling.  The chorus of voices grew louder and more resounding, causing the items in the nearby display cabinets to rattle.</p><p>It was hard to deny the evidence before me.  The silhouette matched what I could recall in biblical lore of what were referred to as seraphim.  Either this Castiel <em>was</em> an angel, or he was some other type of creature powerful enough to mimic one, including the feeling of intense heat from the flames and the rich smell of frankincense, myrrh, and other resins, tinged slightly with ozone.</p><p>“Alright, so maybe you really <em>are</em> an angel.  But still, why do you look like a fluffy housecat?” I asked.</p><p>“Angels are not corporeal as you understand it—my true form is a wavelength of celestial intent roughly the size of your Chrysler Building.  In order to interact with mortals without burning out their eyes or shattering their eardrums, we have to inhabit an earthly vessel when outside of Heaven,” Castiel explained, the radiance around him fading away.</p><p>“There are . . . complications to using humans as vessels, however.  Only certain specific bloodlines are capable of containing one of us safely, and we must gain the person’s permission for the possession.  There <em>is</em> a man of my bloodline currently living in Pontiac, IL, but it seems hypocritical to take him away from his family in order to protect Dean’s, at least not without greater need.  Plus an unknown man constantly in Dean’s or Joy’s presence could attract the wrong kind of attention.</p><p>“Animals, particularly domestic companions, are simpler—they’re unobtrusive and lack the ability to reject us.  More than that, dogs and cats are . . . pure, innocent, and they love their humans the way we love our Father.  We regularly took them as vessels back when we still walked among you.  In this case, it was easy enough to inhabit the body of a Siberian kitten when Dean decided to acquire a pet several years ago.”  He shrugged and resumed his grooming.</p><p>I nodded.  “That makes sense, I suppose.  But why do my—my brother and daughter need an angel guarding them in the first place, since I assume you guys don’t protect everyone like this?  Does it have to do with whatever killed our mom?”</p><p>He looked up again and curled his tail over his paws.  “I have been watching over Dean and his family since his birth, even before your mother’s death, though it was only after Jessica Moore was slain that it was decided that a more . . . hands-on approach was needed.  As to <em>why</em>, that is part of the tale that Dean needs to tell you himself.  I do not want to interfere more than necessary in the issues between the two of you.”</p><p>I dropped my head into my hands.  “God, I’ve <em>really</em> fucked up here, haven’t I?  Dee—Dean would rather punch me than talk to me, and Joy—the daughter I didn’t even know I <em>had</em> until this evening—can’t stand the sight of me!  I—I guess I never gave much thought to what sh—he’s been doing all this time, just assumed that nothing had really changed.  To know that I left him to go through <em>so</em> much alone, without any kind of support from me . . . how do I even <em>begin</em> to make up for this?”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes.  “Dean has not been alone—he has had John, Bobby, and the rest of his unorthodox but large-hearted family to aid him, not to mention my own assistance more recently.  But it is undeniable that it was <em>your</em> presence and care that he needed most, and your desertion did wound him deeply.  It will not be easy to earn his forgiveness and regain his trust after such an inexcusable absence.  As for Joy, she loves her father very much, and hurting him so grievously has not endeared you to her.  I hope you are not planning to give up due to the difficulty of the task ahead of you, however.”</p><p>That caused my head to shoot up, and I replied vehemently, “Of course not!  Dee has <em>always</em> been the most important person in my life, even though I’ve done a piss-poor job of showing it in the last eight years, maybe even longer.  And finding out that sh—he and I have a child together . . . that makes it even more essential to atone for my mistakes.  I want to get to know my daughter and the person my sis—brother has become, to be a part of their lives from now on.  I just . . . I just don’t know <em>how</em>.”</p><p>“If this matters enough to you, you will find a way.”  He leapt off the table and headed down the hall.</p><p>***</p><p>I sighed and sat there for a few minutes, pondering the enormity of the problems I had to deal with.  I eventually rose, collected all the dishes, and carried them into the kitchen.  I started opening cabinets until I found the trash can, scraped the bits of food off the plates into it, and deposited the plates in the sink.  I then continued searching the cabinets.</p><p>“What’re you doing, Sam?”  Dean’s voice was slightly accusatory.</p><p>I glanced at he—him over my shoulder.  “I’m not being nosy, honest!  I’m just trying to find plastic containers to store the leftovers.  Cleaning up is the least I can do after you fed me such a great meal, right?”</p><p>His posture relaxed.  “Oh, okay.  Look in the cabinet over there then.”</p><p>I fetched a couple containers from the indicated cupboard and filled them with the remaining meatloaf and macaroni.  After putting them in the fridge, I asked, “How is she?”</p><p>He leaned back against the stove and watched me begin rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.  “She’s still pretty upset, and I can’t say that I blame her.  I shoulda known she’d figure out who you really are sooner rather than later.  Though she still don’t know that you’re my brother, and we’re keeping it that way!  The truth ‘bout our fucked-up relationship is too much for a kid her age to handle, even one as smart as Joy is.</p><p>“Anyways, I told her that I got that she was mad and hurt, ‘cause I felt the same way.  But you’re here now ‘cause you realized you screwed up big-time, so we gotta give you a chance to show how sorry you are.  She’s not gonna be giving you hugs and kisses anytime soon, but she promised to not be rude,” he said with a shrug.</p><p>“That’s the best I can hope for at the moment, I suppose,” I responded.</p><p>“So, what’s your plan for this visit, dude?  I know you ain’t giving up on that apple-pie life you’ve worked so hard for, the one that you thought was more important than anything else—including <em>me</em>.  So you got a ballpark idea ‘bout when you’re going back?”  Dean eyed me cynically as he spoke.</p><p>“This <em>isn’t</em> just a visit—I’m not leaving unless you really and truly decide that you don’t want me in any part of your life,” I argued.  “I’m not planning to just mooch off of you though.  One of the job offers I‘ve been seriously considering is a firm here in Vancouver, and I’m going to accept it.  I’ll have to finish the process to get a Certificate of Qualification and—”</p><p>“So what, you’re gonna turn down all the other opportunities you mentioned in order to stay here?  Because you suddenly want to be closer to me for the first time in eight years?”  His expression was still skeptical. </p><p>“This firm was already on my short list—I’d even started the assessment procedure before graduation.  And the chance to be with my family again is much more important than anything those other companies could offer me,” I said earnestly.  “So yes, this <em>is</em> what I want to do.”</p><p>“Guess we’ll hafta see how well this works out then.”  Sh—he pushed himself away from the stove and stretched.  I couldn’t help but stare as his Henley rode up enough to reveal a bit of flat, toned belly and the beginning of a treasure trail.  “Just keep in mind that <em>no one</em> here can know that we’re brothers.  Anyone with eyes will be able to tell that you’re Joy’s biological father, but if somebody also finds out that the two of us are so closely related, we’ll <em>both</em> be royally screwed!”</p><p>“I . . . I see your point.”  I coughed to clear my throat.  “Publically being her father and your . . . ex is fine with me.  Though what happens if John shows up and doesn’t go along with this charade?”</p><p>“Don’t worry about Dad.”  Dee—Dean smiled mirthlessly.  “As far as he’s concerned anymore, he and Mom only had one son, and that ain’t you!”</p><p>“What the—?   Dammit, what the hell is <em>wrong</em> with that man?” I burst out.  “All I did was go to college, not stab him in the back!  I didn’t do anything different that the majority of other kids that age.  How does that warrant getting thrown out on my ass?”</p><p>“Dad never handled defiance well, and you doing all that shit behind our backs didn’t help.  But he was more afraid of what might come after you without either of us to protect you.  That was the main reason behind his whole drill-sergeant routine, the constant moving us around, and the rest of the bullshit he inflicted on us growing up—he was terrified that whatever killed Mom wanted us too.  So <em>that</em> was really why he blew up at you like that when he found out about Stanford.</p><p>“He woulda gotten over it eventually though, even with his stiff neck, if you hadn’t acted like such a selfish tool <em>after</em> you left.  It was the hell you put <em>me</em> through that really turned him off, and the fact that even your girlfriend getting killed just like Mom wasn’t enough to make you pull your head outta your goddamn ass and stop thinking only ‘bout yourself!” he growled.  “So take your little pity party and shove it, ‘cause nobody here gives a fuck!”</p><p>I ducked my head in shame.  “You’re right, man.  I—I don’t have the right to complain, especially not to you.  For what it’s worth, I’m very sorry I caused you so much pain.”</p><p>“Words ain’t worth much, not after all this time.  What’s gonna matter is how your actions measure up.”  He left the kitchen and paused in the mouth of the hallway.  “I’m usually in here by around seven-thirty to make breakfast before taking the munchkin to school and going to work, if you wanna join us.  Her school’s closed tomorrow—one of those professional development days—but some of the parents are taking her class on a sponsored field trip to Science World.”</p><p>“When—when are we going to talk?” I asked somewhat timidly.</p><p>He turned to face me directly, his brows lowered.  “You know what—we ain’t.  I <em>did</em> tell you about all of this before—I left you dozens of messages for over a fucking year.  The fact that you know jack shit right now is completely on you, ‘cause you didn’t care enough about us, about <em>me</em>, to listen to any of ‘em.  I don’t owe you a damn thing after what you put me through, so why the hell should I make this easy for you?”</p><p>I dropped my gaze to my feet.  “I guess that’s no more than I deserve.  I’m grateful that you’re even giving me this chance, and I’ll do my best to not make you regret it.  I . . . I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”</p><p>He nodded and continued towards the stairs without saying another word.  I finished cleaning up the kitchen and returned to my room.  After putting some of my clothes away in the closet and dresser, I decided a shower was in order.  I undressed, grabbed a worn Stanford t-shirt, a pair of flannel sleep shorts, and my shower bag, and headed into the bathroom.</p><p>After years of living in motels, dorm rooms, and student apartments, I was long inured to cramped shower stalls of dubious cleanliness and water quality.  So this one was a welcome change—spotlessly clean, spacious enough to move around in comfortably, and fitted with a rainfall shower head hung high enough that even I could stand underneath, not to mention <em>amazing</em> water pressure and temperature.  I could feel the day’s stresses sluicing off of me, along with the funk from stewing in a car with barely functional air conditioning for nearly ten hours.</p><p>By the time I finished showering, changed, brushed my teeth, and unpacked the rest of my toiletries, I was running on fumes.  I managed to stay up reading in bed for a little while longer but soon had to call it for the night, even though it wasn’t all that late yet.  Nothing today had gone even remotely as planned, but at least I was here.  Hopefully tomorrow would turn out better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One of the things I enjoyed when angels were first introduced in S4 was that, despite their human vessels, they were these powerful, utterly alien beings who interacted with the world differently than mortals, who didn't understand and often looked down on humanity.  I really hate that these once strange, threatening celestial creatures have been reduced over the years to bland office drones with the same petty frailties as everyone else.  It made sense to make Castiel become more human as he learned from the Winchesters (though not dumbing him down to the self-absorbed moron he's become), but he should've been the exception--making angels in general into nothing more than essentially self-righteous humans with powers frankly has ruined them.  One of the biggest disservices IMO started in S8 when they portrayed angels still in their human vessels while in Heaven (outside of an individual's private Heaven) and made Heaven itself into a glorified office; I understand that given the limited FX budget, SPN couldn't properly create their true forms, but I wish they'd come up with a better solution.  </p><p>Anyway, the point of this rant is that I wanted to emphasize in this story that angels are in fact completely different beings, not just humans with wings and halos.  Fortunately fan fiction doesn't have budgetary limitations, so I can give Castiel a unique voice and dial up what is experienced when he spreads his wings.  The depiction of the shadow of his true form is based on descriptions of seraphs from biblical lore.  I also wanted that to be a reminder to not be fooled by this Cas' current cute, fluffy vessel--he is still a Warrior of the Lord.</p><p>This weekend was supposed to be the last update for We'll Do That Together Too, but unfortunately that final chapter is only about half-finished, so I'm posting this instead.  The next update for this story should be in ~3 weeks as normal.  Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos make me a happy kitty.  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I groaned when my alarm went off at a quarter after seven.  The previous night’s rest had barely put a dent in the exhaustion accumulated over four days of near-constant driving, and the fact that this was probably the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in didn’t help motivate me to get up.  But I wanted to see my sis—brother and daughter before they left for the day, and I consoled my weary body with the promise to crash again once they were gone.  I managed to force myself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.</p><p>After a minimal attempt to make myself presentable, I wandered upstairs and into the kitchen.  Dean was already at the stove, frying diced potatoes, peppers, onions, and whole black beans in one large skillet and scrambling a mixture of eggs, milk, and shredded cheese in another.  Speakers in each corner of the ceiling in the family room—I’d noticed yesterday that the rec room and most of the main level was wired for sound—were playing <em>Ramble On</em>, and he hummed along as he cooked.  I quietly took a seat at the breakfast bar and watched him, taking in the black Styx t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and firm chest and dark-washed jeans that showed off his trim waist and curved ass, and noting that he seemed to be in a better mood this morning.</p><p>He turned off both burners a few minutes later and began to divvy up the skillets’ contents among the whole wheat tortillas he had spread out on a baking tray.  As he worked, he commented, “You still look like shit.”</p><p>“I just spent two days driving from Palo Alto to Sioux Falls and then another two days from Sioux Falls to Vancouver, all in a car that someone my size wasn’t meant to be cooped up in for so long.  It’s going to take more than one night in a proper bed to recover,” I responded with a barely stifled yawn.  “Speaking of which, that mattress is fantastic, and that shower is a godsend after the past few days!  This whole house seems pretty amazing, man.”</p><p>Sh—he tried to shrug modestly as he started to roll the filled tortillas into burritos, but his pleased expression gave him away.  “I got lucky finding this place a couple years back while it was being built—properties on campus go fucking quick!—and have been working on it here and there ever since.  Can’t take full credit for how the guest room downstairs turned out though.  Adam picked out the décor—he took a liking to Musqueam art after his first visit here.  And Kate gave the mattress sets in both guest bedrooms as a housewarming present, though I still tease her that it was really a Homer gift!”</p><p>“Who are they?” I asked with a furrowed brow, recalling that he’d mentioned this Adam last night too.  I didn’t remember any hunters or other associates of John’s with those names from our childhood, so I assumed these had to be more recent friends Dean had made.</p><p>He gave me a measured look before answering.  “Adam is our half-brother, and Kate is his mom—and technically our step-mom now.”</p><p>“Wait, <em>what</em>?  John had another kid?  And—and remarried?  When did <em>that</em> happen?  When did you find out?” I sputtered in shock.</p><p>“In case you hadn’t noticed, a whole <em>lotta</em> shit’s happened since you turned your damn back on your family,” sh—he pointed out acerbically.  He then took a deep breath and continued more calmly, “You’ll find out ‘bout ‘em sooner or later.  For now, the coffee pot’s full, and mugs are in the cabinet above it.  Maybe some joe will help you look less like a <em>Resident Evil</em> reject.”</p><p>I followed his suggestion and filled an Iron Man mug from the fairly high-end coffee maker sitting on the counter next to the fridge.  My brother rolled his eyes but showed where the various fixings were, and I added sugar, cream, and a dash of cinnamon before resuming my seat.  I closed my eyes and savored the taste as the caffeine percolated through my system.</p><p>Joy scampered in soon after wearing a pale green smocked sundress with white sandals on her feet and white butterfly barrettes in her hair, Castiel once again following close behind.  She took a seat at the other end of the breakfast bar from me, and Dean gave her a plate with a small breakfast burrito.  Two larger burritos were set in front of me, and he sat down between us with a similarly laden plate for himself.  I felt the weight of eyes on me and looked down to see the cat—err, angel—staring at me pointedly.  Since I wasn’t sure if the contents of the burrito were all safe for feline consumption (even one who happened to be a seraph), I instead found a small bowl and poured in some cream, then set it on the floor.</p><p>As we ate, Joy chattered excitedly about the trip to the museum.  She wasn’t as blatant about ignoring me this time, which I suppose was her concession to the promise to not be outright rude.  I kept quiet—as much as I longed to get closer to her, it was still too soon, and there was far too much I didn’t know.</p><p>Once we’d finished eating and our plates had been piled in the sink, Dean turned to the little girl.  “Okay kiddo, you got your lunch and snack?  Here’s ten bucks to get a souvenir if you see something cool.  Go put everything in your bag, and we’ll head out.”</p><p>“Leave the dishes, and I’ll clean everything up,” I said when he started for the sink.  “Is it a long drive to her school?”</p><p>He shook his head.  “Nah, it’s actually on campus, so we usually walk or bike there before I go to work if the weather ain’t crappy.  You gonna be okay here for the next few hours?  There’s plenty in the fridge to make yourself something for lunch—though if you set my kitchen on fire, I <em>will</em> end you.”</p><p>“I’ll be fine, and your kitchen is perfectly safe—I still may not be a good cook, but I <em>have</em> outgrown the burning Ramen noodles-stage,” I replied with a smile.  “I’ll probably sleep some more and then finish unpacking my stuff and maybe start studying.”</p><p>“That’s fine.  Feel free to check this place out, but stay away from any of our personal shit!  And you need to move your hoopty car around back to the garage—it can’t stay out front.  If it won’t start, you’ll have to get it towed or something,” he told me.  “Anyway, we should be home by four or so.”</p><p>Joy returned at that moment wearing a Wonder Woman backpack, and the two left the duplex.  I rinsed the dishes off, added them to what was already in the dishwasher from last night, and set the load to run.  I made my way back to my room, crawled into bed, and fell asleep in a matter of minutes.</p><p>***</p><p>It was nearly noon when I woke up for the second time, feeling a good deal more refreshed.  Another long, hot shower and a clean change of clothes completed my transformation from troglodyte to mostly human.  I unpacked the rest of my clothes and personal effects, got my TV set up on the console, and arranged my laptop, textbooks, and study materials on the desk and bookcase.  My stomach decided to rumble at that point, and my priority became acquiring lunch.  As I cut through the rec room to go up to the kitchen, I noticed Castiel fast asleep in a pool of sunlight near the top of the cat tree. </p><p>After filling up with a hefty roast beef sandwich and unsuccessfully attempting to start my car, I decided to explore the house a bit more while waiting for the tow truck and headed upstairs for the first time.  The hardwood floor from the main level continued here, and the hallway walls were painted the same pale gold as the foyer.  Framed photographs of Dean and Joy at various ages, sometimes accompanied by John, Bobby, Pastor Jim, and various people I didn’t recognize, were hung throughout the corridor.</p><p>I turned to the door at the end of the hall closest to the stairs, which bore a handmade sign with “Joy” painted in sparkly gold, and pushed it open.  Inside was a princess suite decorated in shades of purple: lilac walls hung with whimsical fairy tale art, plush plum area rugs, amethyst window curtains and bed linens, and violet accents in throw pillows, lamp shades, and seat cushions.  The scrolled metal frame of the twin canopy bed was shaped like Cinderella’s carriage, and the matching silver-gilt nightstand, dresser, mirror, desk, and bookshelf featured fluted legs, rose drawer pulls, and bow details.  The playroom had shelves of toys along one wall and a colorful table set with bins of art supplies nearby.  Arranged on the floor were several elaborate playsets, including a castle, pirate ship, Death Star, and Bat Cave, and a handmade dragon rocking horse rested by the window.  A French door in the playroom led to a balcony furnished with a child-sized porch swing, wicker chair and end table, and window boxes of flowers.  The en suite bathroom was similar to the guest bath downstairs except for a bathtub-shower combo in place of the shower enclosure and purple glass mosaic tiles, towels, and other accents.  The one oddity was the small dorm fridge near the bed. </p><p>The next room down the hall was another guest suite.  It was furnished similarly to my bedroom with a queen bed, nightstands, dresser, and armchair, and the bathroom was identical except for the tub-shower combo.  The walls were painted a pale blue and hung with framed <em>ofuda</em> and <em>omamori</em> scrolls, a treasure vase and collection of <em>maneki neko</em> figurines were arranged on the dresser, and a blue and white mandala rug covered the floor in front of the bed.</p><p>The last room on this floor was the master suite.  The bedroom was furnished with a king-sized storage bed flanked by a pair of nightstands, a TV stand with a large flat screen TV across from the bed, a dresser with mirror along one wall, and a recliner and small end table by the windows, all in the same mid-century modern style as in most of the other rooms.  Large windows and a pair of French doors filled most of the northern wall, and the remaining walls were painted a sage green, while the curtains, bedspread, and rug were a darker forest green.  Movie-themed art prints designed as travel posters were hung around the room, and high-quality prop replicas were displayed on the various tables.  One doorway opened into a spa-like bathroom with a double-sink vanity, glass-enclosed shower, soaker tub, and separate water closet, finished with a tan marble countertop and floor, bamboo green glass tiles on the walls, and darker green pebble tiles for the shower floor, while another led to a spacious walk-in closet.  The French doors gave access to small balcony overlooking the front yard and holding a simple wrought iron bistro set and a few potted plants.</p><p>I followed the stairs up again to the top floor.  The interior portion consisted of a practice dojo, complete with tatami mats, hanging and freestanding kicking and punching bags, racks and hooks for sparring pads, training weapons, and other equipment, a pull-up bar, and mirrors along one wall, a small storage room, and another powder room.  The rest of the level was an expansive rooftop deck covered in green slate tiles and surrounded by a wrought iron railing.  A large wooden pergola at one end provided shade to the wicker sofas arranged around a square coffee table, which doubled as a fire pit when the lid was removed, while loungers and deck chairs beyond it took advantage of the sun.  A teak table set, grill, sideboard, and bar with built-in ice chest in the corner offered outdoor dining options.  At the far end of the space, a pirate ship jungle gym, castle playhouse, and open area with rubber mats was clearly designed for Joy.  Planters filled with small trees, shrubs, and flowers were scattered extensively throughout the deck.</p><p>As I headed back downstairs, quietly in awe of the life my sis—brother had built, the tow truck driver called.  After dealing with transporting my car to a local repair ship, I suddenly remembered what Joy had said about a photo album and returned to the master suite—specifically Dean’s closet.  Half of it was filled with rows of neatly hung flannel, denim, and button-down shirts, jeans, slacks, and blazers, shelves of tidily folded t-shirts, Henleys, and thermals and carefully arranged boots, athletic shoes, and oxfords, and well-organized drawers of underwear, socks, belts, ties, and other accessories.  The other half of the closet was empty except for a handful of suits and a small gun safe.  I eventually noticed a stack of photo albums and a file box stored on a shelf running above everything else, partially hidden by a spare comforter.  I started to reach for the box first.</p><p>“What are you doing, Sam?” Castiel demanded from behind me.  “Dean warned you against prying into his personal belongings.”</p><p>I startled and nearly dropped the box.  “Dammit, don’t <em>do</em> that!  Look, I’d love to be able to respect his privacy and all, but what choice do I have if I want to find out just how badly I’ve jacked things up?  Dean doesn’t want to talk to me, Bobby would sooner shoot me with rock salt, and my asshole father apparently pretends I don’t even exist.  I don’t suppose <em>you’d</em> be willing to spill?”</p><p>He turned his head and licked his shoulder pointedly in response.</p><p>“That’s what I thought.  I suppose I could ask Pastor Jim, assum—”</p><p>“The good pastor is dead—he was killed, along with Caleb and a few others of your father’s allies, approximately three years ago by a minion of the demon who murdered your mother,” he interrupted.</p><p>“Jim—Pastor Jim’s <em>dead</em>?  And the thing that murdered Mom and Jess was a <em>demon</em>?”  Pastor Jim had been the person I was closest to outside of my family growing up, even to the point of helping me apply to colleges without their knowledge.  Demons meanwhile were the absolute worst threat of the supernatural world, something even veteran hunters were leery to tangle with.  “What <em>else</em> happened that I missed?”</p><p>“It is not my place to say without Dean’s permission.  You will have to speak to your brother when he is willing.  Until then, I advise against prying into his private documents without permission, as that will be sure to draw down his anger,” Cas replied before giving me another disapproving look and leaving.</p><p>I sighed and then carried the file box and albums down to the dining room and set them on the table.  Deciding to start with the box, I removed the lid and lifted out a stack of what appeared to be medical records.  The earliest was dated to near mid-October 2001, almost a month after I’d gone to Stanford and about a week after Dee’s initial attempt to find me on campus.  The first few reports were from a psychiatrist at the United Hospital District in Blue Earth, with the patient’s name listed as D. Campbell.  They provided a diagnosis of gender identity disorder and prescribed a series of screens, including a physical exam and pregnancy test, and further counseling before starting hormone therapy.</p><p>The next record was from a gynecologist also at UHD, confirming a positive pregnancy test result and estimating the patient to be six weeks along.  That put the time of conception at just prior to when I’d left, possibly even the night before I’d finally told my family, a night I’d spent doing my best to say goodbye to my sister without words.  What puzzled me though was <em>how</em> she could’ve gotten pregnant, since she’d always been compulsively strict about her birth control due to her gynecological problems, and she’d become even more stringent once our relationship had turned more than platonic.  </p><p>The following records were of monthly prenatal visits, first at UHD and then at University Hospital in Madison starting in January 2002.  Among them were the results of genetic testing through chorionic villus sampling performed about a month after the pregnancy was confirmed.  The initial report a few days after the test stated that the baby was negative for Down, Patau, Edwards, and Turner syndromes and that it was a girl.  The follow-up report two weeks later listed negative results for nearly two hundred genetic disorders but came back positive for MCADD—medium-chain acyl-CoA dehydrogenase deficiency, a recessive disorder which impaired the body’s ability to break down certain types of fatty acids.  According to the attached pamphlet, it could result in hypoglycemia or even death if the patient fasted too long and was most prevalent in those of northern European Caucasian descent, like both the Winchester and Campbell families.</p><p>I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, metaphorically speaking.  As a passionate teenager, I hadn’t thought much about the consequences when first instigating a sexual relationship with my sister, but one of the major reasons for her adamant birth control regimen was to avoid any risk of inbreeding.  Those precautions had obviously failed, and our daughter now paid the price.  It was fortunate that she hadn’t inherited something more severe, as this disorder seemed treatable with proper dietary management—which explained the surprisingly healthy meals Dean had prepared so far and the need for a fridge in Joy’s room.</p><p>Aside from somewhat elevated blood pressure, which was an apparent maternal side effect of MCADD, the initial reports from the obstetrician showed Dee to be in good physical health through the first and beginning of the second trimesters.  Those from her therapist weren’t so rosy, describing symptoms of depression stemming from abandonment and gender dysphoria issues.  Then in early February, her blood pressure abruptly increased, which combined with high levels of protein in her urine led to a diagnosis of preeclampsia.  Despite treatment with hypertension medication, the condition worsened as she developed peripheral edema and low platelet counts.  Late March brought an additional diagnosis of a mild placental abruption after having sudden abdominal pain and vaginal bleeding, and she was put on bed rest and prescribed corticosteroids to speed development of the baby’s lungs.  It was at this point that the medical reports moved to Windom Area Hospital, with her primary caregiver listed as Kate Milligan, RN.</p><p>While the picture painted so far was hardly pleasant, nothing had been actually life-threatening to either mother or child.  That changed abruptly as I went through the last batch of medical records in the stack.  Dee was brought to the hospital on May 1<sup>st</sup> after the sudden onset of severe seizures, as her preeclampsia turned into full-blown eclampsia.  The seizures in turn worsened the placental abruption, and an immediate C-section was scheduled due to the spiked maternal and fetal distress.  Joy Angeline Campbell was born at 2:38 AM on May 2, 2002 at a gestational age of only thirty-two weeks and birth weight of only three pounds fourteen ounces.  During the surgery, the doctors couldn’t stop Dee’s bleeding because of the thrombocytopenia, and at one point her heart actually stopped for almost three minutes.  To stop the hemorrhaging, the surgeons had to perform an emergency hysterectomy and blood transfusion, and it took her two days to wake up afterward. </p><p>I had to stop reading at this point as the enormity of my sins overwhelmed me.  It would’ve been bad enough if Dee’d had to deal with even an easy pregnancy on top of my desertion, her gender identity issues, and being forced out of the hunting life.  No doubt contending with the genetic testing, MCADD diagnosis, and preeclampsia added plenty of additional stress to her mental health problems, and the compulsory bed rest must’ve been a major ordeal for my active, energetic sister on top of everything else. </p><p>Learning just how severe the medical complications around the birth were, how she’d almost <em>died</em> and had been in a coma for a couple days as a result, how our daughter had been born nearly two months premature and had spent the first few weeks of her life in an incubator in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, was a shock.  Presumably John, Bobby, Pastor Jim, this mysterious Kate, and others had supported Dee during all this, but that didn’t mitigate my guilt.  As her brother, her lover, and the father of her child, I’d failed her by not being there when she needed me, and there was no excusing that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope this chapter didn't come across as too info-dumpy, particularly the last part.  Despite Dean's unwillingness to talk about the past, I didn't want to drag out Sam being completely ignorant about what happened--and why everyone is so furious with him.  As he pointed out, he can't make amends properly if he doesn't know what he did wrong, and keeping him in the dark for much longer might begin to feel contrived.  This chapter reveals an important part of what Sam missed out on, and the next chapter or two will fill in more of the family history.</p><p>We're all aware that one of the major reasons why incest is generally taboo is the danger of inbreeding.  It usually takes several generations of repeated inbreeding for deformities to routinely show up, like in the Hapsburg royal family in the 1500-1700s (check out Charles II of Spain for a particularly egregious example), but any consanguineous pairing increases the chances for their offspring to inherit any recessive genetic diseases in the family, with the risk increasing the more closely the pair are related.  One problem I've noticed with Wincest stories involving mpreg or genderswap though is that this risk is almost never brought up, and is sometimes even ignored to the point of normalizing incestuous relationships in the setting.  Other stories try to handwave the risk away by claiming that the brothers are somehow genetically different enough for it to not matter, except that's not how genetics works, like at all--full siblings share 50% of the same genes, and their offspring are therefore 25% likely to inherit the same recessive traits.  Now I get that fan fiction is often simply an escape and therefore isn't always meant to be realistic, but I still feel like it's doing disservice to a serious issue when I've only come across 1 or 2 Wincest mpreg/genderswap stories out of the thousands here on AO3 that actually face the consequences of inbreeding.  So when I decided to write my own version of the Winchester siblings having a child together, I wanted the story to include that child inheriting a genetic disorder as a result.  I selected MCADD as something that could be serious if they're not careful but not automatically debilitating or tragic, and it was a bonus that it's more prevalent in northern Europe, including England (which is presumably where both the Winchester and Campbell families originally came from).</p><p>My apologies that this update is a few weeks late.  The past couple of weeks had been extremely busy at work, and I usually didn't have enough brain cells left after coming home each night to devote to editing and posting this chapter.  But now I'll have much more free time to devote to writing, since unfortunately I was laid off on Thursday.  I hope to find a new job relatively soon, but in the meantime the updates to the 3 stories I'm currently posting should be more regular.  As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos make me a happy writer.  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I had to take a break and give myself a chance to calm down.  I put the papers back in the box, got up, and grabbed a beer out of the fridge.  I then wandered out onto the patio, which was surrounded by a privacy fence and furnished with a grill, small outdoor dining set, planters of vegetables and herbs, and a simple fountain.  The space was quiet and peaceful, and I sat in one of the chairs to enjoy the tranquility for a while.</p>
<p>Once I’d finished my drink, I went back inside, tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and returned to the dining table.  I decided to not dive back into the medical records yet and instead turned to the photo albums, of which there were three in total.  The covers were finished in antiqued top grain leather with gold tooling on the borders and spines, and each was dyed a different color—burgundy, navy, and emerald.</p>
<p>The burgundy album covered the Winchester family history up until when I left for Stanford.  It started with photos of Mom and John, painting the picture of a young couple in love.  A few showed Mom with an increasingly larger belly, and then came images of Dee as a baby and toddler, by herself or with one or both of our parents.  After some more of Mom being pregnant, baby me joined the family photos.  The rest of the photos were devoted to our childhood on the road, mostly of Dee and I, separately or together, and only a few including John as well.  I smiled wistfully at my sister’s transformation from pretty girl to beautiful teen to stunning woman, while in comparison I remained small and awkward until my growth spurts started at age fifteen.  Most of the pictures I recognized, some from John’s journal, more from the stash Dee had kept in a shoebox in the Impala’s trunk, and a few from albums in Bobby’s or Pastor Jim’s possession.</p>
<p>The album with the navy cover began with pictures of Dee at the pastor’s house, looking pale and sad, dated from a few weeks after I’d left.  Her demeanor didn’t change much as the images progressed through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, with Jim, Bobby, and even John occasionally appearing.  Her mood seemed to improve though in the new year, after the setting of the photographs changed to the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus.  Her pregnancy started to show by this point as well, a gentle swell visible through her clothes.  The pictures alternated from the campus to her tiny apartment, and I was as intrigued to see my sister interact with the trappings of a normal life as I was to watch her belly grow.</p>
<p>Equally fascinating were the ultrasound images interspersed among the photos, beginning when she was ten weeks pregnant, with a new one added about every four weeks.  The baby was initially approximately the size of a strawberry, her tiny fingers and toes and the outline of her nose and ears already visible, and developed over the weeks until she looked almost like a miniature newborn about the size of a head of cauliflower at twenty-seven weeks along.</p>
<p>The pictures changed again at this point, showing Dee in a small house, mostly lying on a bed or couch, once again not looking well.  Many of them also included a pretty blond woman in her late thirties or a sandy-haired preteen boy who looked oddly familiar, and Dee’s expression seemed a little improved in their company.  Upon viewing a picture of the three of them and John, with John’s arm around the woman’s waist, I realized with a start that she must be our supposed step-mother Kate and the boy our half-brother Adam.  I now recognized these were younger versions of two of the unknown people in the photos hanging in the upstairs hallway. </p>
<p>The last few pages of the album were all photographs taken in the hospital.  The first images were of a fragile-looking Dee hooked up to machinery in the Intensive Care Unit, and later seeming a little better in a regular hospital bed.  She began to be also shown holding or nursing Joy, who was incredibly tiny.  Other pictures were of Joy in the NICU, either in an incubator or being held by Dee or the nursing staff.  Many of them showed others keeping Dee company or cradling the baby—John, Bobby, Jim, Kate, and even Adam—and I felt conspicuous in my absence.  The last photos were of my sister smiling as she carried her daughter out of the hospital.</p>
<p>Before I could move on to the final album with the green cover, which presumably documented the transition from Dee to Dean, I looked at my watch and realize it was already past three-thirty.  I swore and hurriedly stacked the albums on top of the file box, then carried everything down to my room.  I stashed them in the back of the closet behind a couple of my own boxes and hoped that Dean wouldn’t notice they were missing before I could finish going through the rest of the records and photos.</p>
<p>Since I still had some time to myself, I decided I needed to stop dawdling and take care of my own business.  I dug through one of my boxes of paperwork until I found the job offer packets and carried one with me back to the dining room, along with some study material.  This package was from Tech Forward Services, a firm specializing in intellectual property and technology law here in Vancouver.  I reviewed it again briefly and then found the contact information for Vince Anders, one of the partners.</p>
<p>Once he picked up, I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Anders.  This is Sam Winchester, calling about the offer your firm had extended to me recently.  If it’s still available, I’d like to accept.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Sam!”  He sounded surprised.  “Frankly, we weren’t expecting you to take us up on the position.  Considering you graduated at the top of your class at Stanford, we assumed you’d received more competitive offers from bigger-name firms.”</p>
<p>“To be honest, I did, at least if you just crunch the numbers,” I admitted.  “But I didn’t study law just to earn a fat paycheck and stock options.  I put Tech Forward on my short list because I liked how its non-traditional model focuses more on the clients’ needs and offers a better work-life balance than most other firms.  Then I recently found out that I have family living in Vancouver, and that cinched the deal for me.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m certainly pleased to hear that!  How long will you need to move here from Palo Alto?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I’m actually already in Vancouver and staying on the UBC campus with the family I mentioned,” I replied.  “So I’m ready to get started right away.”</p>
<p>“Great!  Since Monday’s a holiday, how about Wednesday?  That’ll give HR and IT a little time to make sure everything’s ready for you.”</p>
<p>“Sounds good to me.”</p>
<p>“Alright, I’ll send you an email with the details.  Feel free to call me if you have any questions or something comes up.  Look forward to seeing you soon!”  Vince seemed genuinely pleased as he hung up.</p>
<p>I’d just begun studying when the front door opened.  I heard Joy first, excitedly telling Castiel about the exhibits she’d seen and interacted with at Science World.  She skipped into the kitchen, where she pulled a juice box from the fridge.  Dean followed close behind, a look of affectionate amusement on he—his face.  He let her natter on for a few minutes before shooing her off to her room, with the cat predictably in tow.</p>
<p>The moment her footsteps faded, he strode over, grabbed a fistful of my t-shirt, and yanked me to my feet, his expression now pissed-off.  “Did I or did I not tell you to <em>not</em> go snooping in my personal shit?  Are you <em>trying</em> to get kicked to the fucking curb already, asshole?”</p>
<p>“How—how . . . did Castiel rat me out?” I demanded.</p>
<p>“That ain’t his style.  You honestly think that I’d let someone I don’t trust in my home, near my daughter, without putting up precautions?” he retorted with a fierce shake.  “Now where the <em>fuck</em> is my stuff?”</p>
<p>I winced at the trust dig before retrieving the file box and photo albums from my room.  He snatched them from me and stalked off up the stairs.  He returned a couple of minutes later and gave me a hard shove.</p>
<p>“Give me <em>one</em> good reason why I shouldn’t throw your stupid ass out right now!” he snarled, slamming his hands against my chest once more.  “The first time I leave you alone here, and you go ahead and do the one thing I fucking told you <em>not</em> to!  You sure have a strange idea of how to earn back my trust, douchebag!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, man—I didn’t want to go behind your back like this, but I had no choice!  I <em>need</em> to know what happened, because I can’t fix what I fucked up if I don’t even know what that <em>is</em>!” I responded. </p>
<p>Dee—Dean glared at me for a moment longer, then suddenly threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture.  “Fine!  If it’ll keep you from sticking your goddamn nose where it don’t belong, then I’ll tell you the fucking basics—but that’s <em>it</em>.  You’ll hafta wait though, ‘cause I’ve got higher priorities than you right now.  I’ve got a date tonight with the prettiest girl on campus, and I ain’t keeping her waiting for your sorry ass.”</p>
<p>I smiled at the abrupt change in his tone and took a guess.  “Daddy-daughter date night, I take it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, every other Friday we go out for dinner, and then we usually see a movie or exhibit or something—tonight it’s <em>Battle for Terra</em>.  So you and I will ‘talk’ or whatever after we get back and Joy goes to bed,” he told me.  “Don’t think this lets you off the hook though, dickwad!  If you <em>ever</em> pull this kinda crap again, I will gladly beat you down and toss you out for <em>good</em>!”</p>
<p>He retired to his room at that point to get ready, and I returned to studying.  The two emerged and came downstairs about a half-hour later.  Dean was dressed in another pair of dark jeans, a burgundy pullover, and black blazer, his hair looking artfully disheveled, while Joy was wearing embroidered jeans and a dark yellow ruched blouse with a floral print, her hair pulled back in a French braid.  After I swore to stay out of trouble, they went out to the garage, and I heard the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine as they left.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>I kept studying for a while, then reheated the leftover meatloaf and macaroni for dinner and watched something inane on HBO in the family room.  It was close to nine o’clock when my sis—brother and daughter came back.  They went straight upstairs, and then Dean came down about fifteen minutes later, barefoot and without the blazer.</p>
<p>He nodded towards the stairs.  “Let’s go down to the rec room, okay?”</p>
<p>I rose and followed him downstairs.  While I took a seat on the sofa, he headed to the wet bar and poured a couple fingers worth of Scotch into two glasses.  My eyebrows rose as I noticed that the bottle was Johnnie Walker Platinum Label.</p>
<p>“One of Bobby’s old friends, Rufus, introduced me to the good hooch a few years back,” he commented in response to my expression.  “I save the Blue Label for when he comes over for a visit.”</p>
<p>As he handed me a glass and got comfortable in the recliner, I took the time to properly study he—him.  Even though I was still trying to wrap my head around the massive changes which had occurred in my absence, I had to admit that Dean looked <em>good</em>.  I wasn’t referring simply to his attractiveness, though he was undeniably as gorgeous now as before, perhaps even more so.  His robust appearance suggested he was no longer skipping meals to make ends meet or relying on caffeine and alcohol to get through the day.  His demeanor was generally more relaxed, with the lines on his face now more from laughter instead of stress.  Most telling, he seemed to be truly comfortable in his skin for the first time in my recollection.  I realized that if who he was now made my brother happy, I had to do better to accept this.</p>
<p>“Alright, how much did you go through already?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Um, just up until Joy went home from the NICU.  I didn’t have time to look at any of the records after that or the last photo album,” I answered.</p>
<p>“Okay, then I’ll fill in some of the details from that first year and what happened since then—but you’re still only getting the Cliff Notes version.  I’m not gonna spend hours explaining all the shit you skipped out on, and I certainly ain’t talking to you ‘bout my feelings.  You haven’t earned any sharing and caring privileges yet—and how you’ve been going, you ain’t getting there any time soon.”  He gave me a challenging look.</p>
<p>I raised my hands in a placating manner.  “Whatever you want, man—this is your show.  I know I don’t deserve much right now.  And I <em>am</em> sorry for upsetting you by invading your privacy.”</p>
<p>“Good, as long as we’re on the same page.”  He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts.  “I ain’t going into when and how I figured out I was trans right now, but near the end of that last summer I decided I had to stop hiding and tell you the truth.  Problem was that while I was trying to pick the best way to explain everything, you announced you were going to Stanford and had that huge blowout with Dad. </p>
<p>“I admit, I was pretty blindsided when you left, and it took a coupla days to get over being fucking <em>pissed</em> that you never told me.  But our relationship was too important, at least to <em>me</em>, to let that kinda shit get in the way, so I tried to call you.  I wasn’t planning to tell you everything over the phone, but I didn’t wanna just show up on campus unannounced. </p>
<p>“When you didn’t answer my calls or return my messages at first, I thought maybe you were swamped with orientation crap, so I waited about a week before calling again.  When <em>those</em> calls didn’t get any responses either, I thought maybe something had happened to your phone, so I decide to swing by Palo Alto.  It took a few times of trying to catch you on campus to realize that you were <em>intentionally</em> dodging me.  The final straw was when I came to your dorm room, and you not only barricaded the damn door to keep me out, but I also <em>heard</em> your fucking phone ringing when I called—which meant you were in there and avoiding me.”</p>
<p>I slumped back in my seat.  “I’m so, <em>so</em> sorry, Dean!  I know I’ve already said this, but I was being a completely selfish, insensitive ass who was only thinking about himself!”</p>
<p>He rolled his eyes in response.  “Tell me something I <em>don’t</em> know!  Anyway, it was fucking obvious that you didn’t wanna see me, though I didn’t know why, so I left.  I didn’t know what to do, and I needed to talk to <em>someone</em>, so after a coupla days I went to see Pastor Jim.  I explained what was going on to him—except for us being more than siblings obviously—and asked for his advice, ‘cause I was afraid to disappoint Dad.  It took a while, but eventually Jim convinced me that talking to him was the best thing to do.</p>
<p>“I called Dad to come to Blue Earth, and sure enough, the pastor was right.  Once he understood what was going on, Dad was actually pretty awesome,” he continued.  “He’d suspected for a while that there was something going on with me, more than just being a tomboy.  Once I calmed down, he asked what I wanted and how he could help, and I told him I wanted to go through with transitioning.”</p>
<p>I gave my brother a skeptical glance.  “And John didn’t have a problem with you settling in one place and not hunting for however long it took in order to take care of all that?”</p>
<p>“No he didn’t, smartass.  Contrary to what you think, Dad’s always wanted what’s best for us—it’s just that what he thought that was and how he went about it generally didn’t match up to other people’s expectations, especially yours,” he shot back.  “In this case, he got that hunting wasn’t safe for me while I was so messed up emotionally and shit, so I needed to make myself right first.</p>
<p>“We agreed that the first step was seeing a therapist, and Jim found one nearby that I was comfortable with.  Things were going fine at first, and then the doc prescribed a buncha tests to take before eventually starting hormone therapy.  Needless to say, that positive pregnancy result was the <em>last</em> thing any of us expected!”</p>
<p>“I bet!  The one thing I don’t get though is <em>how</em> you got pregnant,” I confessed.  “I mean, you were always so strict about your birth control regimen because of the cysts and other issues, and you became practically fanatical about it after we began sleeping together.”</p>
<p>Dean sighed.  “You remember a few weeks before you left, when I developed a fever after getting thrown headfirst into a tombstone, and you insisted I go to a clinic ‘cause you were worried about meningitis?  Well, apparently they forgot to warn me that one of the antibiotics they gave me, rifampin, can make the pill less effective.  So I musta actually ovulated for the first goddamn time in years, and then one of your swimmers snuck in past the goalie.  The OB did tell me that my getting pregnant was kinda miraculous, because between the cysts, endo, and fibroids, my fertility shoulda been in the fucking toilet.  Cas has tried to say that maybe Joy being conceived was preordained, but I don’t buy into that destiny bullshit.</p>
<p>“Finding out I was pregnant was obviously a game-changer.  Going back to hunting was completely off the table, ‘cause I wasn’t putting my kid through the same sorta shit Dad dumped on us—she was gonna have all the things we never did.  So I sat down with Dad, Pastor Jim, and Bobby to figure out a long-term plan.”</p>
<p>“Did . . . did you tell them that I . . . uh, was the father?” I asked.</p>
<p>That earned me an incredulous stare.  “Do I look like I had a death wish?  I let ‘em think that I didn’t know, that it was probably some one-night-stand.  Bobby was the one who figured out the truth—he got suspicious when I insisted on having the full genetic testing panel, and I guess we hadn’t been as good as we thought ‘bout hiding how we felt, at least not to him.  Everybody wigged out for a while, but they got that I wasn’t the one who’d instigated <em>that</em> side of our relationship.  It also helped that the testing results didn’t come back with anything more serious than MCADD—<em>and</em> that we clearly weren’t an item anymore.”</p>
<p>“The next step was to get a degree since I wanted more options than being a mechanic or cook, ‘specially with an imminent baby bump, and I already had my GED and some college credits from taking courses here and there at local community colleges or online.  The eventual goal was to get my bachelor’s and then go to a grad school in Canada because their provincial health care covered gender reassignment treatment, while most companies in the States didn’t.  University of Wisconsin-Madison had a folklore program, so that seemed ideal given my background and its proximity to Blue Earth and all.  Pastor Jim called in a favor with a dean in the admissions office that he’d helped with an imp problem to get me enrolled in the next semester.  I stayed with Jim until after Christmas, then moved to Madison and started classes.”</p>
<p>He paused to sip his drink before going on.  “Right before the holidays, Dad got a phone call from this kid.  Turns out that a dozen years earlier, he’d gotten hurt on a ghoul hunt, fell for his nurse, and one thing led to another.  He left town after he was healed up enough to get back to us, not knowing that Kate was pregnant.  She never contacted Dad afterward, but she eventually told Adam ‘bout him, and <em>he</em> pestered her after he turned eleven until she agreed to let him call the old man.  We all ended up meeting at Pastor Jim’s house a few days after Christmas, and I kept in contact with both of ‘em afterward.</p>
<p>“Which turned out for the best when I was confined to bed rest later due to complications from the MCADD, fibroids, and other crap.  Kate immediately insisted that I move in with her and Adam, since I couldn’t stay by myself and neither Bobby nor Jim had the expertise she did.  They kept me from going nucking futs sitting on my ass for several weeks, and the others dropped by when they could.  Most of my professors were nice enough to work out a remote way to keep up with my classes, which helped too.</p>
<p>“You’ve already read about how bad the birth was.  They had to remove my entire uterus to stop the bleeding, they had to take out both ovaries because of how bad the cysts and endometriosis were, and they had to spend three more hours cleaning up the rest of the endo in my abdomen before they could close me up, and everything got so dicey that at one point my heart stopped.  I woke up in the ICU two days later with no idea ‘bout what had happened or whether my little girl was alright.”  He stopped and stared into his glass for a moment.  “That was the closest I’ve ever come to dying, even after so many years of hunting.</p>
<p>“Having Joy was worth all of that though.  Fortunately she was really healthy despite being born so early, so she was able to get outta the NICU after about four weeks, and she caught up to her milestones pretty quick.  Once we were both outta the woods, I had to figure out what to do next,” he said.</p>
<p>“God, I am <em>so</em> sorry I wasn’t there for you!” I burst out.  “You’ve got to know that I would’ve come if I’d known.  Which begs the question, why didn’t anyone <em>force</em> the truth on me?  I mean, I’m not denying that I was an utter dick for ignoring your attempts to call or visit, and I’m not trying to blame anyone besides myself for that epic fuck-up.  But John had no issue breaking into my new place to make me listen to him after Jess’ death, so . . . why didn’t someone do the same about <em>this</em>?”</p>
<p>Dean stared at me in disbelief.  “You don’t think I <em>tried</em>, you bastard?  I drove to Palo Alto one last time when Joy was five months old and we were both strong enough to make the trip.  I was carrying her on my way to your dorm when I saw you out there with <em>her</em>.  Same height, same color eyes, practically the same color hair, even same size boobs—fuck, could you be any more pathetic?  You know, I hated that girl for the longest time for taking you away, ‘til I realized that you probably never even mentioned me to her.</p>
<p>“So there I was, gawking like a jackass, when you finally looked up and saw me, and I could tell by your expression that you recognized me.  Instead of, you know, asking about <em>the baby in my goddamn arms</em>, you grabbed Jess’ hand and booked outta there like there was a fucking hellhound on your ass.  I went back to my motel room completely devastated and probably woulda got shit-faced if I didn’t have Joy with me, but I eventually decided I was gonna go back the next day and kick in your damn door if necessary.”</p>
<p>I hunched down in shame as I remembered the incident.  “I know I sound like a broken record, but I’m so, so sorry!  I—I panicked when I saw you that day, and I didn’t even notice that you were holding anything, let alone our baby—I swear!  If I had—”</p>
<p>“You think that absolves you of anything?” he demanded angrily.  “The fact that you didn’t wonder <em>why</em> I showed up again after nearly a year, that it didn’t occur to you that there had to be something <em>serious</em> going on if I was there after so long . . . all that shows you were a douchebag who only cared about himself—and I have yet to see any sign that you’ve changed since then.</p>
<p>“I suppose you don’t remember calling me later that night and leaving this shitty message either:  <em>I can’t believe you’re still showing up here—never took you to be the pathetic, clingy type, Dee.  Haven’t you gotten the hint yet that we’re </em>done<em>, that I’ve moved on and don’t want you around anymore?  Then let me be crystal-clear—our relationship was sick and wrong, it’s </em>over<em>, and I don’t want to see you ever again.  If you don’t stop harassing me, then the next time you come here or call me, I’ll be forced to take out a restraining order against you, and I </em>will<em> enforce it!</em>” he recited with a sneer.  “Or do you have an excuse for that too?”</p>
<p>“After hearing that, I was fucking <em>done</em> with you.  I went back home with Joy and resolved to raise her by my own damn self.  Dad wanted to go to Stanford to smack some empathy and responsibility into you himself, but I told him not to bother.  The self-centered, uncaring sonofabitch that you’d turned into—or maybe always were—wasn’t anyone I wanted in my life, especially near <em>my</em> daughter,” he concluded.</p>
<p>“You’re right—there’s no justification for what I did.  I—I was a coward who ran from my problems instead of facing them.  If I’d had the guts and—and integrity to talk to you, everything could’ve been different.”  I bit my lip and looked down.  “Do you . . . do you hate me?”</p>
<p>“You’re damn right I do!  I devoted my whole goddamn life to you, and you threw me away like a piece of fucking garbage,” he responded immediately.  He then hesitated before adding, “Eighteen years of caring about my little brother ain’t something that completely goes away though.  But I honestly don’t know how you expect me to forgive you after everything that happened.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My apologies for the unexpected hiatus!  Work got very busy for a while, so that I didn't have the energy to write when I got home.  Then I was unexpectedly laid off, and my motivation to write pretty much disappeared while I was out of work.  Fortunately I started a new job at the beginning of the month and my muse decided to return, so I've been able to work on updating my current ongoing stories.  Posting this chapter did get delayed by a few days though because we had to put my nearly 16-year-old RagaMuffin cat, Mephisdemos (he's my avatar image), to sleep on Friday--he'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and late-stage kidney disease a couple weeks earlier, and we'd been trying to keep him comfortable until it was clear it was time to let him go.  :(</p>
<p>I'm sure there are some who were hoping for a stronger reaction when Dean discovered Sam had invaded his privacy after being specifically told not to.  As satisfying and deserved as Dean kicking Sam's ass to the curb might've been, that would've pretty much been the end of the story however, since the likelihood of Sam being let back into Dean's life would've been slim to none (as I think I mentioned in an earlier note).  From a character standpoint, we know that it's not in Dean's nature to completely reject his little brother, no matter what Sam's done, and I felt like that would apply here.  In turn, Dean figured it was best to lay everything that had happened out for Sam not only to keep him from prying further but also to make sure Sam understood exactly how he'd screwed up . . . and see what he'd do with the information going forward.</p>
<p>I have to admit there's some self-insertion regarding Dean's gynecological problems.  I suffered with ovarian cysts, uterine fibroids, and endometriosis for years because my doctors kept insisting I was "too young" and might "change my mind" about not having kids, before eventually getting a total hysterectomy (which did take an extra 3 hours to clean up all the endometriosis that had spread throughout my abdominal cavity).  Fortunately my husband and I didn't want children, since it was likely doubtful I could have them with all those problems.  Those same issues in turn led to the serious complications during Dean's pregnancy, such as the hypertension, preeclampsia, and placental abruption.</p>
<p>One of the questions I needed to answer is why didn't someone FORCE Sam to listen and learn the truth, even if they had to break into his place and tie him down to do so?  Initially of course Dean still thought he could get through to Sam, and then he was too sick with the complications from the pregnancy and birth--and presumably he convinced John, Bobby, and the others not to go in his place because he wanted to confront Sam himself.  But there needed to be a reason why Dean didn't continue to try after he'd recovered.  Which is where that voicemail came in, this time convincing Dean instead of Sam that his brother no longer cared about him--and unfortunately for Sam now, this voicemail wasn't the result of angelic or demonic manipulation.</p>
<p>As long as my muse continues to behave, the next update should be in 2-3 weeks, since I'm still alternating between a couple other stories.  In the meantime, constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.  :)</p>
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